


Rarest of the Rare

by melody_in_time



Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Lestrade, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody_in_time/pseuds/melody_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has secrets, Gregory Lestrade just happens to have more than most. The realisation that maybe, just maybe, he had somewhere over the years developed something of a fascination with his very Dominant, very Alpha, friend was, at the end of the day just one more. After all, it's not like anything would come of it. There was no way that Mycroft Holmes would ever be interested in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a big apology to those who have been waiting for me to get this cleaned up and processed for so long. A huge thanks to all of you who have followed this on the meme and who have come along to here. Secondly, a huge thanks to my Beta, imagined_away who has taken on the huge task of editing this series in addition to everything else in her hectic life.
> 
> Lastly, please be aware that the BDSM practices displayed in this fic are tailored for the 'verse and are not examples of good BDSM practice. Please do NOT use anything as a guide for real life.

“And so it’s painfully clear that the murderer was, in fact, the lover not the husband like your pea brained team thought. Now go, arrest him Inspector, that’s what you do best!” Sherlock Holmes paused to inhale, preparing to launch into the second half of his monologue, usually dedicated to the utter idiocy of New Scotland Yard.

“Fantastic!”

The threatened monologue was derailed as fast as it had been approaching and the world’s lone Consulting Detective absolutely did not blush. “You still do that out loud, you know.”

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade hid a grin as John shuffled his feet guiltily.

John Watson was, without a doubt, the least assuming Alpha on the planet. Alphas were strong, powerful, macho, tall, Dominant. They wore aggressive clothing, were unashamedly arrogant, and kept their shoulders back and chins up. In short, they were physically imposing and status conscious and would never do anything to lessen the aura of power they naturally exuded.

John Watson, on the other hand, wore cuddly jumpers. John was short. John _followed_ his flatmate all over town, let him order him around, and actually obeyed his ‘poorly framed requests’ as Greg had once heard them referred to as. John was nice, sweet, quiet and ordinary. If Greg hadn’t been there when the crazy drug addict with the knife had started waving said knife very close to Sherlock’s neck and seen for himself how John’s Dominance had dropped, not only the addict, but three quarters of the police officers present to their knees, well, he’d probably still believe John was a Beta Submissive too, whereas in reality John was an Alpha Dominant, so dominant that half those whose knees had hit the floor had also been Doms, and he just happened to have a penchant for light, knitted, snuggly jumpers and a very high tolerance for ‘improper’ dynamic behaviour.

Which was good, considering Sherlock.

After all, If that hadn’t in some ways been the bigger surprise... Greg, and the rest of the world to be fair, had always assumed Sherlock was an Alpha Dom himself. The man was tall, imposing, and arrogant as all fuck, all Alpha traits. Okay, so he was slightly on the lean side to fit the stereotypical Alpha profile, but then John was slightly short, and Sherlock’s devastating intelligence was certainly indicative of the breeding genders. He looked Doms in the eye and had made it his personal business to ensure that every Dom he worked with lowered their gaze first, acknowledging his dominance.

So when the whirlwind that was New Scotland Yard’s Consulting Detective blew in to give his statement with a bracelet around his _right_ wrist, well, there were certain officers who still refused to be in the same room as him. Apparently where people were perfectly happy to be embarrassed, but good natured about mistaking an Alpha Dominant for a Beta Submissive, they were inclined to take thinking, or being tricked into thinking most claimed, that a Submissive was a Dominant with much less grace.

Sherlock merely pointed out that if they were truly oblivious enough not to have noticed all the signs, which even after having had them enumerated for them most people still claimed not to be able to see, and besides that were idiotic enough not to notice his gender and dynamic that were printed on his ID, then that was their problem and merely proof of what Sherlock had been saying all along that NSY was staffed by imbeciles. This speech usually ended with Sherlock forcing whoever had resurrected the issue that time to back down with a raised eyebrow and, as the ‘injured’ party was 90% of the time one of the Dominant officers at the Yard, Sherlock’s popularity was not increasing.

Greg merely reflected anew every time another idiot Dom tried to prove that he or she could make the ‘upstart Sub’ submit that Sherlock was dammed lucky to have John as his Dom because there couldn’t be any other Dom in the world who would be able to tolerate that level of challenge from their Sub, let alone be comfortable enough in themselves to allow their Sub to confront his challengers on his own. John Watson seemed to thrive on it.

“You know what I think, Freak?”

“Always, Sally.” Sherlock twirled and bestowed a less than genial smile in Greg’s Sergeant’s direction.

“I think you’re wasting our time.”

Sherlock puffed up like an angry cat, but the slightest shake of John’s head turned him from angry jungle panther to pissed off kitten, which Greg was thankful for. Sally was still going to get her arse handed to her, but at least he wasn’t going to have to deal with hysterics from the rest of the team as well.

“We all know how good you are at that, don’t we Sally? And how was that little weekend in the country? Most decent of you to let Anderson Dom, or is that the only way you’re able to keep him now?”

For Sherlock, that was almost kind, and Greg thanked everyone and everything for John Watson even as Sally squared her feet ready for a fight.

“Thank you, Sherlock. Come in for a statement tomorrow.” Greg saw no reason to allow the fight the two of them were spoiling for.

Sherlock favoured him with a long blink, obviously deciding whether he was going to allow Greg his interference. Decision made he tossed his curls, letting them lift slightly in the cold winter breeze, and turned at a right angle away from Sally in an obvious dismissal.

“Next time maybe you’ll call and allow me access to the crime scene when the crime occurs, rather than when you’re forced to acknowledge you work with idiots. This could have been wrapped up a week ago if you’d called me when the body was found.”

“You had the files.” Sally didn’t try keeping her voice down.

Sherlock ignored her, knowing that nothing would annoy her more. “And I’ll be in on Monday. Not before.”

He ducked under the police tape still cordoning off the crime scene and held it up for John to pass under. It was small gestures like this that reinforced to those who knew to look that John was indeed the Dom in the relationship and that, despite rumours to the contrary, Sherlock really did submit to him. Not so much the fact that Sherlock lifted the tape for him, he’d done that since they’d met (usually as an unspoken command), but the fact that John didn’t even check his stride, despite being almost level with the taller man, expecting it to be raised for him. It was in the way that Sherlock waited, at least at the end of a case anyway, for John to adjust his coat and gloves and name the take away de la nuit before hailing the cab, something John had never managed to do, and the way he let John usher him inside with a possessive hand in the small of the Detective’s back.

“Freak.” Sally tossed her hair and glared after the cab.

Greg sighed. Unfortunately Sally was a Dom and if she and Sherlock had been problematic before the little revelation about Sherlock’s sexuality their relationship  afterwards had sped past ‘hateful’, was making its way rapidly through ‘outright loathing’, and was fast approaching ‘murderous’. However it ended the only thing that was sure was that Sherlock wouldn’t be the one supplying the Yard with a body. That’s not to say that he wasn’t capable, but if it came down to actual physical violence there was no way it wouldn’t be John.

John who would no doubt be very apologetic at the funeral. Remorse or guilt was much more unlikely.

The problem was simply that Sally and Sherlock had to work together on almost every case. It was hard for a lot of Doms to accept that another Dom was able to out dominate them and to develop a productive working relationship, especially if they occupied lower or unofficial positions in the workplace and so should be submitting, according to the workplace hierarchy. To be forced to back by a Sub, someone whose very dynamic dictated a need to submit… even the sight of Sherlock understandably rubbed Sally the wrong way. It had only, unbelievably, become worse when halfway through a case Sherlock had gone into Heat and been revealed as not just a Beta, but an Omega. After that any hope of a tolerable, let alone functional, working acquaintance went right out the window.

Greg finished directing the uniforms who were bagging and tagging the additional evidence Sherlock had identified. He’d already dispatched a patrol car from the scene around to the lover’s house, but the chances of the Sub still being there after murdering his Dom were slim. The fact that he’d hung around long enough to talk to the police was unusual. The average Sub would have bolted straight away, driven to run by a mix of terror, confusion, guilt and adrenaline resulting not only from the act of murder, but the heady backlash from overpowering their Dom. Most police officers wouldn’t even bother to send the car back, but Greg refused to buy into stereotype of the emotional hysterical Sub.

The call came as the last of the evidence was being loaded for transport Greg sighed as he listened to the uniform’s report. From what could be seen through the window the Sub had packed in a hurry and was definitely gone. He checked his watch.

“Okay, thanks. Head back to the station and quickly write that up before you clock off. Yeah, thanks Higgins.”

“Sub’s done a runner?” Sally asked as he hung up his mobile. She sounded remorseful and her fingers automatically reached towards Anderson for reassurance before pulling back.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, but he’d be up for a very long prison sentence so I suppose it’s not surprising.”

Once upon a time the murder of a Dom by a Sub was an instant death sentence. In these more ‘enlightened’ times the penalty for murder had been standardised across the sexes as gaol time, though Sub Liberation groups still threw around statistics claiming that Subs were handed down harsher penalties for crimes against Doms than identical crimes against Subs. This Sub was just lucky that, despite the affair, he and the victim Dom had never exchanged claims and she had most definitely not collared him. Murder within a Bound rather than casual relationship was a separate offence to regular murder, carrying not only jail time, but mandatory corporal punishment.

“He won’t last long unless he’s assigned a Sub gaol.”

“Even then.”

Greg and Sally shared a resigned look. Prisons holding those accused of violent crimes were segregated primarily by dynamic to prevent abuse of the incarcerated Subs by the Doms, but even in the supposedly ‘gentler’ Sub Section certain crimes were not tolerated and the perpetrators were subjected to Prison Justice. Murder of your Dom, official or not, for any reason less than self-defence was just one of those crimes and while carrying on an affair behind your Bound Sub and husband’s back wasn’t a great character reference, there was no sign that the recently deceased Dom had been abusive.

So, four o’clock. Well, Greg amended as he snuck another glance at his watch, quarter past four. Close enough to five he could almost justify not going back to the station. That’d give him plenty of time to go home and change before meeting Mycroft for dinner. Maybe even time for a shower. Sally and Anderson didn’t need him to help take the evidence in after all, and he’d put in a lot of overtime lately and...

Drat, he had to go in and flag his suspect, and if he went back to the Yard he’d be handed files, asked for opinions, and have paperwork demanded from him until he ended up still at the station at seven, just like last night.

And the night before that, and the night before that...

It’s not like it mattered. After all, it’s not like it was a date or anything. It was just a weekly catch up with a good, his best, friend, so it’s not like he needed to go home and primp or anything. It just would have been nice to be able to prove to Mycroft that he _could_ look presentable every now and then. Even coming from the office Mycroft was always impeccably dressed and it would have been really good to not feel grungy sitting across the table from him. It wasn’t like he wanted to impress Mycroft or anything (well maybe a little), he just would have appreciated the chance to maybe even out the fashion stakes given the number of times he’d looked truly awful in the other man’s presence, but Mycroft had seen him after the office, even straight off a crime scene, before so it _really_ didn’t matter and he _really_ meant that and he did _not_ feel disappointed because-

“Got a date tonight, Sir?”

Greg’s head shot up. “What? No! What?”

Sally smirked. “Uh huh, of course not.”

Greg scowled. “I do not have a date. I’m meeting people for dinner later, but it’s not a date.”

He deliberately kept his statement plural to stave off further attacks. He must have looked as defensive as he felt because Sally gently patted his hand and lay off the teasing.

“I can take it from here, Sir. You go home and relax before you have to go out. You’ve stayed overtime enough this week.”

“There’s the-”

“Consider it done, Sir. Just go.”

Greg chewed his lower lip lightly. It would be nice to be able to change... “But-”

“Go!” Sally gave him a gentle push. “Go home and get ready. Wear something nice for once, go out after dinner, and GET LAID! You’re not on the roster tomorrow so for God’s sake go have a night that’s worthy of a day off.”

Greg fought the blush that threatened to rise. True, he wasn’t on the roster tomorrow and it had been a long time since he’d gone out for more than a couple of pints, weekly dinners with Mycroft excluded, but he’d been planning on using tomorrow for paperwork and clearing a little of his load...

Sally gave him a less gentle shove to let him know she was serious. “I swear if I see you at the station tomorrow, you won’t like it. Leave right now and go act like the wild, crazy Alpha you are deep down inside for once.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but took the offer for what it was.

“Thanks, Sally. I’ll see you Monday.” He pivoted and started down the street to find a taxi.

It was amazing, now that he’d been forced to take off from work, how much fell from his shoulders. He resisted the urge to shake them out and instead turned the collar on his heavy black overcoat up jauntily. Sally was right, he had been holding himself tightly in check, all Alpha officers had to, and it would feel nice to let the control go. On impulse he shot himself a seductive look in the reflective glass window he was passing.

“Sir!”

Greg swung guilty back towards Sally who’d jogged a little way from the car after him. The slow burn up the back of his neck confirmed that he was failing to beat this blush down. Getting caught checking himself out by his subordinate was definitely up there on his most embarrassing moments list.

Sally gave him an inscrutable look.

“We,” She glanced back towards Anderson who was yelling angrily into his phone a few meters away and shook her head. “I just wanted to say, it wouldn’t be a bad thing, Sir, if tonight was a date. I wasn’t entirely kidding when I said you should, you know, and you haven’t... there hasn’t been anyone you’ve even exchanged temporary claims with since Josephine returned your collar and, well, I, well, the Team would all be,” swallow, “happy if you were to find someone and we really wouldn’t mind if it was a date and if it was you wouldn’t have, you know, to be embarrassed about it, and well, good luck.”

Greg stated as Sally blushed and almost ran back to the car. Sally Donovan, a very dominant, very strong, very capable detective, had just blushed like a school girl. He turned and continued walking lest his own face turn any redder.

If being caught checking himself out had been embarrassing, being told he could date and that everyone would be happy if he did made him feel like a single Dad being told by his kids it was okay to have sex, and that was just a whole new level of awkward. It also made him uncomfortably aware of how closely his love life, or lack thereof, was monitored by his team.

He pushed it all resolutely aside. Everything could be dealt with on Monday. Tonight was his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented or left kudos! I would love to reply to you all, but I know some people filter which fics they read by number of comments, so instead I will just say that I love and read all of them, but will only reply if you have a question that I can answer. If you do want to have a conversation about anything feel free to comment at my LJ and I'll be more than happy to comment back. (This chapter is http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/4391.html)

Greg stood in front of the full length mirror and conducted a full examination. The navy towel on his hips hid everything to his knees, but he didn’t need to take it off to know that underneath were strongly muscled thighs and a rear that, while not rock hard, was holding up very well despite his age.

Regular runs kept the pudge around his middle to a minimum and though he’d never had the aggressive edge characteristic of his gender, he flattered himself that he looked more like an Alpha than John (the extra height and tendency to avoid muted tones in wool helped). His shoulders were still broad, his arms still firm with well defied, though he admitted not exactly body builder big, muscles. He made sure to do fifty pushups every night before bed, just in case he ended up in a fight with a troublesome suspect. In a world of Dominants and Submissives there was close to a 50-50 chance your suspect would resist arrest rather than run, though there were clear exceptions.

He much preferred arresting Betas than Alphas. A Beta Dominant would often resist initially, but would usually back down out of ingrained habit when it was made clear Greg was an Alpha out of nothing but habit. With an Alpha Dominant it usually skipped straight to an all-out brawl.

 At least it meant he’d never been in a position where he was expected to try and Dom someone. Domming suspects during interviews had been considered improper police behaviour by the Courts since before he joined the force. That wasn’t to say it didn’t happen still every now and again, but given how close Greg skirted to various regulations just by consulting Sherlock, no one questioned his firm avoidance of that particular line.

He self-consciously poked his stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to add some sit ups. Standing up straight he pulled his abs in hard. Yeah, that was better. He let out his breath and allowed his stomach muscles to collapse. Who was he kidding, he was over forty, but for a man his age he looked good. What was the word that young Beta Sub Dimmock had used the other day…oh yes… distinguished. His hair made him look distinguished. Distinguished was good. Distinguished was –

Boring.

With a growl Greg threw the comfortable loose jeans he’d been reaching for on the floor. Distinguished was for old people. Distinguished made him sound like a father, no, a _grandfather_. Distinguished meant he was past his prime, on the downhill slope. He groped haphazardly through the neatly organized rows of pants, shoving his _practical_ work clothing, his _durable_ shirts to the side.

Practical, durable, _distinguished!_ When had he turned into this? When had it got to the point that his _team_ was reassuring him that he could go out and date? He was an Alpha, for God’s sake, a member of one of the two breeding genders and he was forty and Single and _Distinguished_.

At the last thought he yanked so hard on the coat hanger the metal hook bent out of shape. The shirt, coat hanger and all, sailed over his shoulder a second later as he continued his rampage.

There.

He dragged the coat hanger closer, yanked the bottoms off and stalked over to the bedside table for pants. Boxer shorts joined the discarded jeans and shirt in a steady stream as he hunted through for something appropriate. Nothing cheap tonight. He wanted something that was going to suit his focused, predatory mood. Nothing baggy, nothing old.

Tucked at the bottom of the drawer was a pair of black Calvin Kleins. Tight, black trunks. Cotton, but such a fine grade and so rarely worn that they felt decadent whispering across his skin as he pulled them on and unapologetically adjusted the bulge at the front. These had been a gift from Josephine not long before she’d severed their binding because she’d found another Dom she preferred. He felt it highly appropriate that he wear them now.

The trousers were next, black jeans so fitted he had to breathe in to do the button up. He threw a glance at the mirror to check he wasn’t flowing over the top, but the waistline wasn’t digging in. He spared a brief thought that they were too tight and whether he should put on something looser, but the reignited growl at the back of his mind refused. Distinguished, practical, boring, safe. Tonight he wasn’t doing safe. The tight jeans stayed.

Top, top, top. Behind all the white vests lived his collection of t-shirts, including a very fitted black one that clung to everything. He’d been meaning to throw it out as too small. Why not? His jeans were holding his stomach in, his shoulders were good, his arms were good, and the shirt would emphasise the bracelets on his wrists. The bracelets were more accurately described as cuffs – three inches of black leather with a silver buckle prominent on the back – and were a product of his more reckless youth. He’d liked the tough guy image he’d thought they leant him, the silver buckle embellishment adding a sharp edge he didn’t otherwise carry. After changing to a collar she’d chosen herself, Josephine had abandoned the cuffs and since she’d gone he’d never got around to getting new ones more appropriate to his age and evolving tastes. Sally was right. It had been a long time between relationships. Not that it mattered. These suited his bad boy mood tonight.

He stormed into the bathroom and yanked open the top drawer. It had been Josephine’s and he’d never moved his everyday things from the second drawer after she’d left. Why bother to re-arrange when habit would open the second drawer anyway? Instead the top drawer was a repository of all the things he’d bought or been bought once people thought it was time for him to get back in the game. In the past decade none of it had been opened. Hair gel was raked through his hair with reckless abandon. There perfect. It wasn’t Sherlock’s artfully dishevelled curls, more of a ‘I just spend a week in bed and would love to go back there now with you’ look, but it was just what Greg wanted.

Silver or not, his hair was not distinguished now, that’s for sure.

Fingers pawed through the contents of the drawer. What else was in there? Eyeliner was yanked out and applied, something he hadn’t done since his fifteen year old wannabe biker days. Unlike then it was only applied to the top-outer edges of his eyes. The racoon look may have been favoured in his younger years, but it was definitely out of fashion now. He glared challengingly at the mirror – too much or not enough? His eyes were more prominent and leant him an aura of rebelliousness he liked, but the actual liner weren’t noticeable. Did he want it to be? No, he did have to be aware of his age. He wasn’t a teenager at a punk concert any more, tempting though it was to relive his misspent youth.

He threw the tube back in and forcibly shut the drawer before thoughts of Safe and Practicable could persuade him into some extreme make over he’d regret. He was going out, he was going prowling, but he was still him and he did not want to look and feel stupid.

In consolation he let his fingers wonder over the laminex to the cupboard and pulled out the case where he stored the other relics of his youth. He had to blow a substantial layer of dust off the top. Rooting around inside, his fingers finally brushed past the silver Celtic cross stud. He still made sure to put in his plain stud at least one day each weekend, so it slid into his left ear easily.

He gazed longingly at the matching silver Celtic cross necklace but made himself return the box to the shelf with it still inside. Despite the fact it would have looked amazing with the deep V on the t-shirt he was in, it was no longer the 80’s and in these more conservative times people no longer seemed to push boundaries. The only ‘necklaces’ worn now were the more elaborate collar variations favoured by some Subs, and that bit a little too close to the bone.

How ironic that the world was simultaneously considered ‘enlightened’ and ‘conservative’. He wasn’t in the mood to contemplate it.

Back in the bedroom he rooted around in his bedside table for socks. He felt more than heard the growl in the back of his head kick up to fever pitch with frustration. Why oh why, in the name of God, did he not have a pair of clean black socks? He knew he owned them, several pairs in fact.

With the contents of his sock drawer spread across the floor (and the bed, and the window sill) Greg was forced to admit there were no clean black socks. There were, in fact, very few pairs of socks and he was forced to concede, at least to himself, that maybe he had been spending too much time at the office and not enough time on the laundry. Next best thing, grey socks. Following grey he tried brown then white, where he met with a measure of success, but quickly discarded pairs as he identified holes in the toes and heels. He refused to meet Mycroft, with his silk and suits and bespoke leather shoes, wearing holey socks.

His hand fell on the red and green Christmas socks Sally had given him as his Secret Santa present (he’d banned any of his officers from giving him a dodgy Christmas tie. It hadn’t occurred to him to ban dodgy Christmas socks.) They were clean, they were practically brand new (worn once, just to prove to Sally he was Alpha enough to handle them) and they definitely didn’t have any holes.

On the other hand they were bright red with green Christmas trees, and Mycroft would know, Greg was sure. He had long ago decided that the other Alpha was omniscient and working his way at a rapid pace to omnipotent. Mycroft would let him know he knew too, in his subtle and witty way. If he wore them, Greg would be in for an evening of teasing and would never, ever, live it down.

Holes, Christmas Trees.

Holes, Christmas Trees.

Christmas trees won. He could at least claim given that it was December that he was getting into the spirit of things.

The socks were resolutely pulled on and feet jammed into black leather boots. He and Mycroft were much of a muchness height wise, but Mycroft was slightly taller and Greg always liked to give himself that little bit extra so they really were eye to eye when he could. It made it easier to resist the waves of sheer dominance that rolled off Mycroft Holmes, even when he wasn’t trying.

Greg practically threw himself off the bed at his closet and ruffled through the jackets. He passed over his heavier weather appropriate jackets as not being right for tonight. Seeing him in something like that would completely undo the provocative image he was trying to create for Mycroft. That one, his black leather jacket, was much better, though he’d also pull on the charcoal grey jumper Mycroft had given him one year for Christmas because he wasn’t stupid and it was cold out there.

Greg paused as he was pulling the jacket on. The leather jacket was definitely the best for the night. It was edgy, it was risqué, it was the opposite of safe, practical, and distinguished. It clearly screamed ‘Alpha on the Prowl’. Which is what he wanted – something to lure a potential partner. Not Mycroft. He wanted to _impress_ Mycroft. He wanted to look sexy for whoever he picked up _after_ dinner. Not Mycroft. Definitely not, absolutely never, Mycroft.

He examined himself critically for last minute flaws and smirked. Perfect. He looked exactly like an Alpha should – Dominant, sexy, and dangerous. Not at all distinguished. It was sure to work with whoever he picked up _after_ dinner. And hey, if this little outfit impressed Mycroft, all well and good.

It was, however, most certainly not for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, last chapter of world building before we get into the good stuff I swear. Unfortunately, not only does my muse run wild over me, she is also slightly obsessive when it comes to background and how things work. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading, has left kudos, or commented, and as always a massive thanks to my very patient and hard working beta! Tough, tough job I can tell you. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Greg skulled the remaining two inches of his pint and admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, it had been for Mycroft.

As per Thursday tradition he was parked on a bar stool at the Cock and Bull waiting for Mycroft. With their unpredictable schedules the two of them had quickly worked out a system so that the other wasn’t left sitting alone looking like an idiot in a restaurant, waiting for someone who could be half an hour early to three hours late.

Whoever finished work first (or more accurately, whoever escaped work first) texted the other and then retired to a place of choice to wait. Greg’s nominated waiting place was the pub; Mycroft his Club. Having sent his text to Mycroft Greg was now free to sit here, drink, and watch whatever sports game was on the pub’s television while he waited for Mycroft to let him know he had also made it out of the office.

Greg liked his pub. The Cock and Bull dated back quite a way and still possessed the traditional fixings. Heavy wood beams not found in modern establishments gave taller patrons a pathological need to duck, though they were in reality nowhere near anyone’s head, and the floor was partially slate and partially traditional hardwood. There was no cheap, easily cleaned carpet here.

It was only a small place, shaped like a very poorly drawn L where the head was too short and the tail too thick, almost bulbous on the side. The doorway to the back wall, the longest segment of the entire establishment was only just longer than the ornate bar that split the pub, and it only had fifteen bar stools. Oh there was the walkway to the bar and the standing room beyond it where enthusiastic fans gathered to peer up at the large electronic screen when the game was close, but all in all it was short. The bar itself served as an island, bar stools on Greg’s side, a series of tables and booths on the other where the space was deeper and people could get past without apologising with every step to the owner of bags, coats, scarves, umbrellas, etc. Even so, there were only five burgundy booths and six dark wood tables. Small, crowded, dark, heavy, perfect.

And so here he was, two hours after arrival, an hour after Mycroft was meant to meet him, on his fourth beer, being forced to confront the fact that maybe, just maybe, he had been dressing up for his best friend in less of a ‘I want to show you I don’t always look like a rundown slob’ way and more of a ‘I want to surprise you with how absolutely god dammed shaggable I am so you conveniently forget we’re both Alphas and you take me home to bed’ way.

This was not a realisation Greg was particularly enjoying, but a little voice, which sounded suspiciously like Sherlock, kept piping up and telling him to look at the facts, really look at them, and accept that like it or not, it was the logical conclusion.

_Fact #1: Greg had dressed up for someone._

He had pulled out clothes he hadn’t worn in years, showered, dressed, primped and posed for someone. He looked dammed good as a result. This was proven by the five Subs who’d come over and flirt with him, with varying degrees of subtlety, in the last two hours.

_Fact #2: He didn’t want any of them_.

Despite the fact that two of them were the type of Sub he would usually take home for a night of casual sex, he’d brushed them off completely. Not even a ‘Sorry I still have to meet a friend for dinner but I can call you after’, just a total rejection.

The room didn’t go completely silent, but conversation took a distinctive dip in volume as the door opened and shut. It was enough to draw Greg from his thoughts to glance around for the source, though not enough he automatically moved for his warrant card to try and nip any trouble in the bud. The newcomer in the doorway was typical Alpha – tall, built and, judging by his office attire, intelligent and successful. His black hair was cut short and his unremarkable brown eyes were searching for...them (the group at the booth almost directly opposite the bar stool Greg sat on had waved.)

Alpha or not, in a city as large as London, he was not a show stopper. Alphas may only have comprised 25% of the population, but with a total population of over seven and a half million, that was a lot of Alphas and you really had to be something special to affect the long term London residents. Which meant there was someone with him, hidden from Greg’s view, and only one gender could ever cause that reaction.

Sure enough when the Alpha moved over towards his friends Greg could see that he was followed by a younger companion, maybe as much as ten years his junior, with sandy blonde hair, green eyes and a lithe build. He was dressed in jeans and a black jacket that would have blended in perfectly with the patrons of the pub. Too perfectly, which with the deliberate steps and controlled facial expression confirmed what Greg suspected before he had moved far enough around the bar to see the black leather collar.

The collar itself wasn’t a big deal, there were certainly plenty of Bound Subs in the pub already with both flashier and plainer collars respectively, but missing front of theirs was the small gold symbol hanging from his. Not just a Submissive.

Omega.

Omegas were rare. Usually totalling between 5 and 10% of the population, never more than 15%, they were the minority gender in every civilization in the world, and they were not popular.

Greg sighed and ordered another beer with a flick of his finger at the barkeeper who’d been serving him. This pub was normal, everyday. There was no restriction on patron’s sexuality and Subs weren’t required to sit on the floor at their Dom’s sides, unlike some of the fancier more highbrow restaurants. Here the dynamics mingled, just like they had in everyday life since the huge Sub Liberation push in the 60’s. Alpha Doms, Beta Doms, Female Doms, Beta Subs, Female Subs – all were welcome, none were excluded, and most of the time only a close examination would tell the sexes apart.

Unfortunately dynamic equality had not translated across to gender equality. Technically it was against the law, _technically_ it was forbidden, but in reality, Omegas were still persecuted. You only had to look at the Yard’s reaction to Sherlock to see that the prejudices remained alive and well. Finding out he was actually a Submissive had dealt a severe blow to what working relationship he had, but one that Greg firmly believed could be overcome with time for bruised Dominant egos to be soothed, assuming Sherlock ever stopped deliberately bruising them long enough for them to heal.

Upon his revelation as an Omega the Detective’s support at the Yard had dropped from a handful to one – Greg himself. Inspectors who had happily worked with him after his dynamic came out refused to contact him for help now that his gender was also public knowledge. Greg had shamed Dimmock and Gregson into admitting they needed Sherlock once or twice, and he still hoped that next time they’d actually call him rather than let the case go cold, but even in law enforcement things were bleak.

Or maybe he was being unfairly cynical and he should be saying especially in the Police Force. After all, Omegas were prominent in other professions (the Army was actively trying to recruit Omegas among its support and medical staff because of the calming effect on Alpha and Beta Doms who unsurpingly made up a large portion of the army). The Force always was slow at getting its ratios, gender, dynamic, or ethnic based, up to politically correct levels, but then that wasn’t quite true either, as the hush still gripping the room attested. Society’s attitude towards Omegas was still very poor.

The origin of the general attitude against Omegas was one hotly debated amongst scholars as it was one of the few truly uniting things across cultures, and one or two even claimed to know the cause, but Greg didn’t think it was as simple as one thing. Long stakeouts had over the years given him time to ponder a vast number of things and this was one his mind regularly drew back to, especially now his close friend was experiencing the prejudice first hand.

To him it came down not to one, but a combination of factors. Subs in general resented Omegas because they were usually the ultimate Submissives. Despite the black and white Dom/Sub dynamic definitions, sexuality was not so clear cut. In reality there were degrees of dominance creating an intricate balance through society.

Alphas were almost always more dominant than Betas or Women to the point where that assumption had become genetically ingrained, and even if the Alpha wasn’t actually the more dominant of the pair, the other would submit. Foremost anthropologists still questioned which came first, dynamic or gender – were Alphas Dominant because they were Alphas and it was originally an Alpha trait that had spread through society, or did the Dominants of a long ago society evolve into Alphas because, being the most dominant, they had the greatest choice of mates and the other ‘miscellaneous’ Alpha traits evolved to attach to the dominance gene?

Greg was in a uniquely knowledgeable position to say that both theories were fundamentally flawed .

Similarly to the way Alphas were usually more dominant than Beta or Female Doms, Omegas were usually more submissive than Beta or Female Subs. A drunken night with John had revealed that even Sherlock, despite how he acted, fit the stereotype and was in fact incredibly submissive in the privacy of his own home (His day to day attitude was just consummate acting.)Being so Submissive made them unpopular. While other characteristics such as physical appearance or male/female preference played a role, a person’s primary attractiveness to the opposite sex was their relative dominance rating. The greater the difference, the more dynamically attractive the pairing. As Omegas generally had abysmal dominance ratings they were the gender most attractive to Doms, particularly Alphas who occupied the other far end of the spectrum.

A shudder ran through the crowd as the Omega sat next to his Bound and Bonded Alpha. The volume shot up well above previous levels as the patrons attempted to cover the awkward lull that had briefly dropped in.

Greg took a long pull as the Sherlockian voice in his head kept narrating things he didn’t want to know. Not about the patrons of the pub either, he would have been quite interested to know exactly how the couple of blokes in the corner had ended up with matching black eyes, but no, no, the voice in his head just had to keep nattering on about Greg.

_Fact #3: Greg didn’t turn the flirty offers down because he wasn’t sexually attracted to their offerors._

Since he’d discovered his dynamic he had, after all, always been forced to sleep with people he wasn’t primarily attracted to. His rule was as submissive as possible, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to Dom them. He dreaded the day he’d be put into the position at work where he’d be expected to actually Dom someone. Unfortunately, given his gender, his dynamic and thus his sexuality was deemed set by society and all he could do was attempt to maintain public perception.

After all, who had ever heard of an Alpha Submissive?

It was for this very reason Greg avoided any debate about the origin of Alpha Dominance. He often thought society would be surprised to find out how many ‘Alpha’ traits were actually Dominance traits held in check in the other genders by nothing more than convention. He could hardly turn around to people and say he knew exactly which traits resulted from dominance, which from gender, and which were present in both and merely amplified by the combination.

Aggression was an example of such an amplified trait. Alphas were protective, possessive and very willing to fight anyone who was viewed as encroaching on their territory. Aggression in its true meaning, as related to the practice of making offensive attacks, was a dominance trait. An Alpha would fight for something if it was threatened. A Dominant would fight to prove their dominance wasn’t threatened. The distinction was subtle and over time had been lost to an overarching single trait which Alphas were considered to exemplify.

Not that Greg could tell anyone that, not without explaining how he knew which wasn’t possible, not without a massive backlash. If the Yard’s reaction to Sherlock was any kind of guide, Greg didn’t want to think about the reaction when the Yard’s Doms found out the man they had been deferring to, and who had been forcing them to work with the ‘upstart Omega’, for well over a decade was a Submissive. Career suicide didn’t even begin to cover it. Not to mention the social ostracisation once it was revealed to society that he really was a ‘Freak’, the endless psychological and medical tests, the –

A sharp mental slap brought Greg back to Fact #3. He’d love to have been able to pretend that he’d turned everyone away because they were the wrong dynamic, but he’d been living the lie for almost thirty years and was well accustomed to getting his sexual satisfaction from people he was only superficially attracted to. He’d been in a Bound relationship, for God’s sake, even so far as married, though the addition of the ceremony had only been because Josephine’s family had been eager to boast that their daughter had secured an Alpha in the most committed relationship possible for a non-Alpha/Omega pair (fat lot of good that had done as she’d left him). He’d long ago accepted that sexual gratification and sexual fulfilment were two separate things and that while one was open to him, the other was not.

Occasionally, on nights like these where he was more than a little drunk and feeling more than a little melancholy, Greg wondered what he would have done if gender wasn’t determinable two to four years before dynamic. If they’d been the other way around, could he have lived the opposite lie, pretending to merely be a Beta and praying his Alpha instincts were never noted and that he never accidently fathered any children or reacted to an Omega? He wasn’t sure he could have done it. There was, after all, a big difference between hiding who you were attracted to and hiding who you were. His Alpha traits contrasted with many of his Submissive ones, similarly to how they would have complemented his Dominant ones, which meant that overall he mostly felt, at least outside of the bedroom, like he wasn’t living too large a lie. His innate Alpha stubbornness and arrogance were fundamental in allowing him to keep his head when Doms around him exerted their influence. It hadn’t helped against John, but as Greg’s knees hadn’t hit the ground alone, or even first, he flattered himself that his record remained intact. Besides John was, under it all, the most dominant person he’d ever met of _any_ gender except Mycroft.

Mycroft, now there was the crux of the issue.

_Fact #4: He hadn’t only turned all offers down, he was actually angry with the offerors because they weren’t **right**_.

He played with the idea of needing a Dom, just any Dom, and ran his mind through the scenario. Every time, no matter how hard he tried, the mysterious Dom always morphed into Mycroft. Greg couldn’t even mentally get out of the pub before the hand he held slimmed, fingers lengthened and the distinctive tap of an umbrella punctuated his steps.

He ruthlessly pushed the image aside and defiantly took another long pull on his beer. It was just that My was the Dom he was most familiar with, that was all. (Mental note: STOP calling him My else it’d slip out and that would be embarrassing. It was a bad habit he’d indulged in his head for far, far too long and soon Mycroft would notice. Not that there was anything to notice, of course not.)

Obviously after thirty years his dynamic had decided to out and insist on a Dom. Fine, after dinner, where he most definitely would _not_ attempt anything with his _friend_ he’d go to a seedy little club that guaranteed anonymity, find a really drunk Dom, and get laid. He’d never been reduced to it before, but his fantasies had always stayed reasonably in check before as well, so maybe it was time.

The Sherlockian voice in his head started pointing out flaws in his logic before the thought had even finished. He didn’t want any Dom, he was fantasising about Mycroft. Mycroft was not the Dom he was most or uniquely familiar with, and with John on a similar dominance level, it wasn’t even just that he was the most attractive to Greg’s dynamic, though he was.

And physically attractive too.

Greg knew a slightly dopey grin was tugging the corner of his mouth, beer held mid air by his frozen hand, but his brain couldn’t finish the ‘up/down, drink, stop smiling’ command. It was too busy with Mycroft’s eyes, graceful stance, amazing bum, long elegant fingers which would be _so_ good...

Greg’s brain hiccupped and his thoughts criss-crossed as they backtracked. As a result the beer ended up on his face as the arm finally completed its motion, but his mouth didn’t open.

Okay, yes, fine. His friend was good looking. And yes, okay, fine he’d maybe known that for a while, and yes, fine, maybe in a less than objective way, but so were a lot of other Doms and he could pick them up, in theory.

No, he couldn’t. He had been in Alpha mode as he left the house and even removing the cuffs wouldn’t disguise his gender now. He had fully dressed it.

Bugger.

Greg ducked his head and looked studiously at his watch to avoid the glare the barkeeper was giving him as the Beta cleaned up his spill. 8:30. Not the latest they’d eaten, but he hoped Mycroft arrived soon. Greg had the distinct feeling he was about to be cut off, possibly not unfairly, and there was very little else to do in a pub on your own when there weren’t any football matches on the TV than drink.

For the second time in half an hour the pub quietened. The effect was much less dramatic than last time as only the Unbonded Alphas reacted, starting from those near the front near the door and rippling back through the pub. Greg’s head shot up at the same time as the man opposite. A young bloke in a Chelsea jumper actually leapt to his feet, ignoring the outraged look of his Sub girlfriend.

A young boy, well adult, but in this Greg admitted he was starting to show his age, of about eighteen paused nervously out the front as all eyes fixed on him. He’d been walking past, clearly on the way back from errands with dry cleaning over one arm, groceries in the other, and a backpack. University student most likely, though unlike Sherlock Greg couldn’t say for sure.

Omega.

Unbonded Omega.

Unbonded Omega in Heat.

Greg’s nose twitched, though that was a purely psychosomatic response. The pheromones produced by an Omega in Estrus, or Heat in the common slang, were to the best of science’s knowledge sensed somehow through the skin not smelt through the nose. Even among the strongest of scents, or with the sense of smell completely blocked off, Alphas were still able to detect an Omega in Heat. That didn’t stop the body’s belief though that this was how it experienced things.

This was the second factor Greg believed played a role in society’s active Omega prejudice. No matter how good a Bound partnership, no matter how in love a couple, unless Bonded an Alpha would always react to an Omega in Heat. Thoughts of an existing partner wouldn’t even enter the equation.

This meant any Sub with an Alpha Dom lived in perpetual fear of an Omega in Heat getting close to _their_ Alpha and stealing away _their_ Dom. The partner of an Alpha was forced to confront the knowledge that their loved one would, without a second thought, take a random stranger to their bed and actively try to impregnate them even if they were standing right beside them at the time. No one liked knowing that.

A tall built Alpha planted his hand on the Omega’s shoulders and steered him quickly past with a growl and barred teeth. The majority of the Alpha’s in the pub relaxed their stance and returned to previous activities. The Alpha may have been a suitor or, Greg’s supposition given the age of the Omega and their physical resemblance, was a family Alpha. Either way the Omega was staked as off limits and none of the mature and more in control Alphas were going to take that challenge.

An Unbonded Alpha with a claim was dangerous. A family Alpha protecting an Unbonded Omega even more so. With the Omega only just entering his heat cycle, the pheromones alone weren’t enough to offset the confrontation with his protector, especially not given his young age. Even so a few of the young hotheads stayed tense until the duo had well and truly passed out of sight of the windows and only then returned to gentle ribbing from friends or angry moods from partners.

Drumming his fingers on the bar Greg watched the Chelsea supporter plead with a pretty doe-eyed Sub in a low pink dress that did wonders for her creamy skin. She was standing and angrily pulling on her jacket as he attempted desperately to talk her back down. She gave in eventually, and he slid into the booth next to her and gently nibbled on her fingers. It was obviously her first Alpha relationship. She’d get used to it, or she’d return the intricate black leather bracelet on her right wrist and find herself a Beta Dom instead.

All over the pub similar displays were occurring to greater or lesser extents as Alphas attempted to placate their Subs. Even arrogant dominant Alphas would humble themselves if necessary after an Omega-induced slip up.

Relationships with Alphas came with this major pitfall. Alphas and Omegas were known collectively as the breeding genders. For whatever reason, the world had evolved so that Alphas could sire children with either Omegas or females and Omegas could be impregnated by Alphas or Betas, but only an Alpha-Omega paring would have any chance at all at producing an Alpha or Omega child.

This made Alphas very attractive partners as only an Alpha could sire a family. Female Subs had been Omega’s greatest persecutors through history, driven by the knowledge that in a reproductive sense, they really were second best as any of their children were much more likely be a genetic dead end and that even if they weren’t, their Submissive daughters would suffer the same fear through their lives that their mothers had.

Once upon a time Betas and Females had been able to reproduce – the fifth gender Deltas. Deltas had been sterile, which in strict scientific terms was proof that the Beta and female genders, despite sharing common and immediate ancestors, were in actual fact separate species as they were unable to produce viable offspring. Whatever had prompted the evolutionary divergence was still influencing the world as no Delta births had been reported for almost 150 years, proving that the biological gender gap was widening.

Besides which, Alphas were just a biologically more attractive gene pool than Betas. The selective breeding process resulting from the interaction of dynamic and gender had concluded in the two breeding genders existing almost as a super race. They were fitter, more physically attractive, they lived longer, they were more likely to display a unique talent, and their IQ was on average at _least_ 10 points higher than the other genders. In some of the old traditional (and inbred, many from the lower classes sneered) families, who could fiercely trace their roots back to various great Alphas or rarely mentioned great Omegas, the selective breeding process had resulted in offspring who not only displayed one of these more advanced traits, but all of them. The Holmes were just one of these families, and baring a complete lack of any knowledge or understanding of normal society, the two brothers were almost miraculously gifted with intelligence, looks, artistic talent, physical abilities and extraordinary good health.

What woman wouldn’t want those genes going contributing to their children?

That wasn’t to say that there weren’t smart, talented, good looking Betas, not in the least, but Alphas were....more.

In theory Betas were capable of reproducing with Omegas, but the low Omega population and the biological imperatives which could only be satisfied by an Alpha, meant that no Beta ever really got the chance. The reproductive need created by the hormone surge of the Heat cycle could only be satisfied by an Alpha, and only an Alpha could Bond to an Omega.

Bonding was a mysterious phenomenon not truly understood and still worshipped in romance and fairy stories. Myths told of Bonds which allowed psychic communication or increased fertility or renewed life. The only scientific results though were that a Bonded Alpha was calmer and more secure in themselves and their partner, and that a Bonded Omega’s pheromones no longer enticed every Alpha who crossed their path. They were still detectable, but changed to a non-sexual background hum. Alphas with Omegas in their families described the feeling as similar to that caused just by being related to an Omega, but less urgent and with a lesser protective need. After all, no one would _ever_ dare touch a Bonded Omega if they weren’t their Alpha.

There was some evidence that Bonded pairs were more sensitive to each other’s moods and that Bonded Omegas went into Heat more often and more regularly, but it was a normal cycle each time and all couples eventually displayed a noticeable mind reading ability. Alphas and Omegas merely got a few years head start on the understanding front.

It didn’t happen every time. More commonly than not an Estrus cycle would result in offspring and no Bond.

Or a Bond and no offspring. John and Sherlock had gone through a Heat and come out a Bonded pair, but there was no patter of little Watson-Holmes feet yet. This was, in that same drunken conversation, attributed to the fact that both John and Sherlock had been on and off suppressants and the like for most of their adult lives and it would take some time for their bodies to readjust. John had teared up at this stage and sniffled his disappointment into his beer.

The army kept all its Breeding members on suppressants, Alpha or Omega, because it smoothed out the Alpha aggressive mood swings and prevented any Omegas going into Heat on tour surrounded by armed, aggressive, and deprived Alphas. It hadn’t bothered John then as he hadn’t had anyone back home he was thinking of starting a family with. After his discharge everything else in his life had been so crazy he hadn’t even begun to contemplate children. Nor had he felt particularly driven towards offspring when he’d exchanged bracelets with Sarah, thinking that whatever happened one day might happen one day, but not yet. But now, with _Sherlock_ , his crazy, amazing love... now John desperately wished his virility was unaffected by years of chemicals.

Greg hadn’t dared ask what Sherlock had felt about the matter as he really couldn’t see the Detective as parental in any sense of the word, couldn’t imagine him for one second giving up or reducing his beloved Work to accommodate first pregnancy and then a child. The last thing Greg had wanted was to see John bursting into tears in the pub as he confirmed Greg’s thoughts. Sherlock’s Dom or not, Greg knew that John would never demand a child of his lover if it wasn’t what he wanted too, though a lesser Alpha certainly might have.

Two hours late. Mycroft was two hours late. Greg’s fingers smoothed down his jacket and ruffled his hair of their own accord.

_Fact #1: Greg had dressed up for someone._

_Fact #2: He didn’t want any of them_.

_Fact #3: Greg didn’t turn the flirty offers down because he wasn’t sexually attracted to their offerors._

_Fact #4: He hadn’t only turned all offers down, he was actually angry with the offerors because they weren’t **-**_

Mycroft.

Mycroft was his best friend, though he felt utterly primary school when he used the term. There was just no other term appropriate. With everyone else Greg always felt himself clash a bit. He found other Alphas and Beta Doms called to him on a base level he had to hide. The Alphas especially tended to niggle at him, as despite their being Doms he just wasn’t attracted to his own gender. He wasn’t ‘gay’, though the term was usually used to describe people like Sally who were attracted to those with the same dynamic as them rather than the same gender, mainly because it had become politically incorrect to refer to same gender-complementary dynamic Beta or Female couples as gay.

Sally wasn’t a Switch, they were even rarer as a dynamic than Omegas were as a gender. She was just in love with someone who shared her dynamic. It made for a tumultuous relationship between her and Anderson, especially as Anderson was still firmly clawing his way back into the closet Sherlock had dragged him out of and refused to leave his Bound Sub. Their situation was almost the opposite of his, though having been forced by society into their very situation where he was limited in partners to his own dynamic, Greg sympathised with their problems. Maintaining a functioning relationship under such circumstances was _hard_. Been there, done that, had the divorce papers and alimony payments to prove it.

Subs he never felt truly comfortable with, knowing the expectations they held of ‘his’ dynamic. He could feel himself holding slightly away from them, no matter how friendly they were with him, lest they relax fully in his presence in the way Subs only ever did when they were with another Sub. The exception to that rule, as he ever was, was Sherlock, who acted the same around everyone.

For a long time Greg had found himself strangely attracted to the Consulting Detective, something he had attributed to Sherlock’s dominance at the time, but now credited to the fact that the other was an Omega. Omegas were less attractive to Greg than the standard Alpha, he hadn’t had any trouble walking way from an Omega in the early stages of Heat since he was a teenager unlike other Alphas who sometimes had to be dragged away, because while he was biologically attracted to them, he wasn’t sexually attracted to them. He’d never had the opportunity to test his will power against an Omega in the depths of a cycle, but then, given his dynamic that was probably for the best as Heat pheromones were supposed to be irresistible when fully matured.

Sherlock’s Dominant act had made him appear doubly attractive to Greg, more so than anyone ever had, but it was just an act and so they would never had worked in the long term even if Greg had ever gathered up enough courage to make a move. Instead Greg nursed a slight, okay, large hurt that despite years of friendship spanning addiction, overdose and withdrawal Sherlock had never confided in him and never felt free enough to drop the Dominant act around Greg. The Omega hadn’t been hiding his sexuality in the least, but he had never not acted that way, had never really been himself around Greg. It hurt him to admit it, but he knew their relationship had soured somewhat because of it and he fervently hoped neither Sherlock nor John took it to mean he was anything less than supportive of their relationship.

Because he was. Thrilled about it even. He could never have worked the changes in Sherlock John had, even if he had been a Dom, and he was Alpha enough to admit that his fantasies had been based on an idea of Sherlock that didn’t exist.

Thank God because he could never have dealt with Sherlock’s experiments on a day to day basis if anything had happened.

Besides which, the Omega didn’t hold a candle to his brother. Sherlock acted Dominant; Mycroft was Dominant. Greg had seen him floor a waiter with a raised eyebrow (they never went back to that restaurant). Unlike most Alphas, Mycroft was restrained and collected, using his intellect as his weapon of choice rather than muscles, and while all members of the Breeding Genders were of above average intelligence compared to even Beta and female half siblings, Mycroft was almost astronomical in his abilities. It was one hell of a weapon and he wielded it well.

And he was funny, although given his intellect witty was perhaps a more appropriate word. He was kind and loving, despite Sherlock’s (becoming less) frequent complaints to the contrary (the Omega had been distraught when his older brother had ended up in the hospital after a rare assassination attempt. The attempt wasn’t so much rare in its occurrence as the unprecedented success and Sherlock had refused to budge from Mycroft’s bedside until he regained consciousness. The verbal battles once he had reached epic proportions, but Greg knew he and John would both never forget that proof of the depth of the brother’s caring for each other.)

Mycroft was loyal, he was patient, he was courageous, and if Greg was going to start listing all the things he loved about Mycroft like a school girl he had to include elegant, considerate, understanding, fun, cheeky (and oh the smile when he was being mischievous and the edges of his eyes crinkled up as he looked just so at Greg...)

Greg wished desperately for another beer, but as suspected the bartender had cut him off (or was ignoring him, also an option). Thinking this way about Mycroft was bad. Really Bad. He was the only person Greg felt completely comfortable with, Greg’s _best_ _friend_ , and here Greg was thinking up lists of what he loved about him not long after fantasising about his butt and fingers. And, the little voice piped up, using the word love twice.

Greg’s forehead hit the bar with a groan. Why now? Why, why now? Okay, yes, Thursday nights with Mycroft had been the highlight of his week for, well, years and yes, maybe, he’d hero worshipped him for more than a few years and, yes, if he had to admit it, maybe, just maybe, he had noticed that the man was devilishly attractive and his fantasy partners when he brought himself off in the shower had maybe ended up with Mycroft’s height, build and hair over the duration of their friendship (Greg had never let himself look at his fantasy partner’s face. He’d always thought that was to maintain the fantasy. He now thought it was maybe because he was scared to admit the identity of the Dom he was wanking off to), but why had this suddenly cropped up now? Or was it simply that he’d been repressing himself so much that when his Alpha side came out to play suddenly he was forced to confront all this too?

“Sub issues?” The Beta next to him looked sympathetic.

“Sort of.” Greg demurred, talking into the sticky bar surface.

The Beta laughed. “Can’t live with them, can’t whip them outside the house. That who you’re waiting for?”

Greg pulled himself off the bar. “Nah a friend. Meant to be having dinner.”

The Beta gave him a crooked grin. “Dressed like that? Friend a Sub are they?”

“No, but might go out later.” Greg kept his reply short and the other Dom took the hint and left him to his thoughts.

He had to pull himself together before My arrived. No matter what he felt about the other Alpha, and despite all the soul searing admissions he was still refusing to look too closely at things, he had to let it go (and stop calling him My). Mycroft was an Alpha, same as him. Greg might be the right dynamic for him, but he was well and truly the wrong gender. There was no way Mycroft’d be up for anything even if Greg pushed, and that would be an awful idea as My (dammit) had never given any indication that he’d ever looked at Greg in any sort of romantic way.

Greg wondered how much Mycroft would hate him for lying to him if he ever found out.

His phone beeped and Greg fumbled grabbing it out of his pocket. He couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to blame that on either alcohol or eagerness as he didn’t like either. One new message from Mycroft. Dinner tonight was-

Off.

Greg frowned. What?

_Gregory, I’m not going to be able to keep tonight’s engagement. My sincere apologies. – MH_

His stomach felt hollow. Greg knew that stories claimed that characters felt knives to the heart or their hearts crack, but his just felt too loud. Way too loud. He could hear it beating in his head and feel it in his toes as a toxic sludge boiled in his gut and ate away his insides. He swallowed a couple of times to clear his through, but his mouth felt disconnected to everything else.

It was just dinner. The fact that Greg’s five beers had led to uncomfortable soul searching and revelations was in no way connected to Mycroft cancelling. He’d cancelled before after all. Like that time he’d been in Asia (somewhere), and (somewhere) in the Middle East, and that time he was in the States (Chicago – Greg hadn’t asked why, surprised that this time he’d even been given a location, but had found out later that a major crime boss with links through South America and Europe and a primary founder of the militant group who had bombed the London underground had been arrested. Mycroft claimed coincidence. Greg didn’t believe him.) Plus Mycroft had cancelled on him after the assassination attempt that had so upset Sherlock.

Greg frowned. So basically, Mycroft cancelled between a week and 24 hours ahead of time for business trips or while bleeding out in the back of an ambulance before lapsing into a coma.

He started chewing his lip.

Last February Mycroft had left a meeting with the Prime Minister of Japan to have dinner with Greg because it was running overtime and he’d texted him much earlier with details to let him know how things were tracking. Mycroft was very considerate as a rule. Yet he hadn’t texted until now over two hours late.

_Are you okay?_

His finger hovered over the send button, then deleted it. Mycroft was fine. Absolutely fine. He just had work. It might be the first time in three years, but with Mycroft’s demanding job it was to be expected. Greg had a much less demanding career and he’d cancelled on Mycroft plenty of times.

His chest burned slightly as he remembered how on no few of those occasions My had swung past his crime scene with take away and forced him to take five minutes to eat on the side lines. Greg always gave in, Mycroft in protective Alpha Dom mode was hard to resist, but defiantly waved his chopsticks around issuing frankly pointless orders to not feel quite so much like he was surrendering.

Greg’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten and it was after nine. Fine, he’d go walk down the street and find himself a takeaway he felt like, and then he’d go scout out a nice Sub at a club. He needed to get laid, he needed to get his head back on straight, and he needed to stop fantasising about his friend.

Before he ruined the best thing that ever happened in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking through the last one everybody. Sorry it all got dumped in one spot, but originally this was a stand alone story so it all had to go somewhere. I try not to change things I've previously written too much, lest I end up continually rewriting them. I do hope you at least found it informative. I've put a little extra information at the bottom of this chapter, just to help people who are slightly confused still. It was a lot to take in. 
> 
> We are finally going to earn our rating, and as such please remember THIS IS AN AU. IT IS NOT GOOD BDSM PRACTICE IN OUR WORLD. For that matter, it's not necessarily great BDSM practice in theirs either, so absolutely do not use any of this for any kind of guide.

As his feet strolled down the street Greg stubbornly kept an eye out for takeaway joints. It didn’t matter he’d passed every type of cuisine imaginable at a range of prices, obviously none of them had been quite right. The fact that he’d turned into an area where he was less likely to find a takeaway place also didn’t matter. He’d know what he wanted when he saw it and maybe it was time for something new. The fact that this was Mycroft’s street was pure coincidence. Nothing to do with anything at all.

Since he _was_ here, given Mycroft’s usually reliable history, and the fact that he was slightly (majorly) worried given the last time the Alpha had cancelled he had almost died, maybe he would just ring the doorbell and check if he was okay.

Mycroft lived in a gorgeous town house Greg coveted madly. It was the standard three-storey and a basement white stone arrangement for the area with a wrought iron black fence and window boxes, but somehow it managed to look special. Unique. Maybe it was the care that went into it, maybe it was the knowledge that Greg could never afford the maintenance costs, let along the rent or purchase price, or maybe it was just because he knew who lived there, but the house had always called to him like a siren song. He’d never made it inside as Mycroft always met him out given he was always, even on Sundays, coming from work, and the mystery just added to the allure. What did it look like inside? Was Mycroft traditional in his decor? Modern, simplistic, minimalistic? Were there family pictures on the mantle? All Greg knew is that it would be neat, less due to the Alpha’s tendency to keep things clean, and more due to the fact that he was just never home to make a mess.

He paused awkwardly on the doorstep. The lights were on, so Mycroft was home. He clearly wasn’t injured then. Maybe he was tired from work. Maybe he had a lot of work. Maybe, and Greg gnawed anxiously on his thumb at the thought of it, maybe he had a Sub over.

No, Mycroft never cancelled for someone else other than Sherlock, those calls normally required Greg’s presence or came from Greg anyway, and he never cancelled last minute for work unless there had been an explosion in London (and even then Greg had called to cancel on him, though Mycroft had also been making enquiries of his own into the Moriarty affair and had been about to contact Greg to do the same).

Resolutely Greg pushed the doorbell.

There were footsteps down the hallway, barely audible despite the silent street. Carpet in the hallway then. Or maybe wood with a carpet runner. Sherlock would be able to tell the difference but Greg couldn’t. They paused near the door but it didn’t open.

“Mycroft?” Greg called hesitantly.

There was no response.

Greg’s mind started reeling. What if someone had broken in and was holding Mycroft hostage? They’d never found Moriarty and the crazy Switch would be insane enough to do it. He could be holding something over Mycroft’s head, maybe threatening Sherlock or something. Maybe a foreign spy had tracked him down and was trying to force Mycroft to give up government secrets, or a terrorist had successfully identified him as the British Government and was trying to force a political agenda through by force.

Distantly Greg knew that these ideas were alcohol fuelled nonsense, but his Alpha protectiveness flared and he found himself hammering on the door in a panic.

“Mycroft? Mycroft, are you okay? Mycroft, open up!”

The door swung open mid pound and Greg stopped still as his knuckles painfully grazed the retreating wood.

“Mycroft, are you okay? I-” He stopped and swallowed at the totally impassive look on Mycroft’s face. He’d never seen him look so detached. With the Holmes brothers, especially Mycroft who defaulted to polite disinterest rather than disdainful boredom, detached was bad.

“Gregory. To what to I owe this intrusion?”

In the face of Mycroft’s obvious good health Greg’s Alpha nature fled far back to the corner of his mind leaving his Sub personality to cringe beneath the onslaught of Dominant disapproval.

“I well... I was worried. I thought, well, you don’t usually, Jesus Mycroft, last time you were...”

Only Mycroft could ever make him stutter.

The disapproval and cold remoteness on Mycroft’s face took a large step back, but there was still a firm barrier across his features as clear as the door still across most of his body.

Greg swallowed again. This had been such a bad idea. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? This was clearly a bad idea.

Mycroft sighed. “I do wish you hadn’t chosen to indulge your curiosity tonight.”

Greg hated that such a simple statement could have him wanting to crawl on his knees to ask for Mycroft’s forgiveness. He suspected the wish was only partially due to how dominant Mycroft was. Even if by Mycroft’s sheer dominant nature he _hadn’t_ made it feel like Greg had disobeyed an order and let him down, Greg thought he _still_ would have been apologising frantically for upsetting Mycroft.

Which was totally unfair. Mycroft had cancelled on _him_ with no warning, not the other way around. He squared his shoulders and locked his knees. Times like this proved to him that Submissive did not have to mean pushover or doormat.

“Sorry, got someone over have you?” Greg kept it light.

If Mycroft did, if Mycroft had ditched him for a Sub, it didn’t matter. Well, yes it did, but only to the extent it applied to friends blowing off friends last minute, nothing more. Newly acknowledged crush (obsession) _feelings_ or not, Mycroft only owed him basic courtesies, nothing more.

Mycroft gave him an inscrutable look. “No, but something has come up so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll see you next week.”

Mycroft went to shut the door and wafted a cloud of air from inside the house out. Greg’s hand slammed into the door’s panels before he even knew he was moving.

Omega in Heat.

The air was laced with pheromones and unlike the young student outside the pub, these pheromones were from a mature Omega and called to Greg in a way he’d never felt. He’d gone from completely unaroused and emotionally raw to achingly hard with the Alpha in him howling in his mind in seconds.

Omega. There was an Omega here. An absolutely amazing Omega the likes of which he’d never ever smelt before, and they were here and in Heat. Calling for an Alpha’s knot, calling for him.

Mycroft leant his weight into the door, preventing it from opening further despite Greg’s hand pushing it inwards. Why wasn’t Mycroft reacting? A family member then, or someone somehow as close as a family member. Someone whose pheromones wouldn’t affect Mycroft as the other man was still dressed in his tailored grey work suit with not a button out of place, despite being in a house with such a delicious smelling Omega who would try the control of a saint, even Mycroft. God, what Greg wanted to do and he’d only had one whiff!

Sherlock? No, if he were in Heat he would be home with John being thoroughly fucked into the mattress, not here with Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Greg’s eyes locked with Mycroft’s and he _felt_ his pupils dilate. Surely not? Unconsciously he leant forward until his nose was touching Mycroft’s wrist just accessible where they were fighting over the door and inhaled deeply.

His eyes flew wide open. “Jesus Christ, you’re an Omega!”

Something that in another man would be fear flashed through Mycroft’s eyes before his expression screeched to a sudden halt on neutral, deathly and deadly neutral.

“I do apologise for this Gregory, but **Let Go!** ”

Without a second thought Greg let go of the door and crashed to his knees as Mycroft unleashed his dominance over him. Expecting to have to out Dom an Alpha Dominant Mycroft had unleashed the full force of his dominance in that command. Greg moaned as he felt it wash over his skin like thousands of sparks and only belatedly realised he’d closed his eyes.

“An Omega Dominant.” He breathed, unable to make more sound as all the air had been forced well and truly out of his lungs. He was beginning to feel a bit light headed. “You’re an Omega Dominant.”

His response was the door slamming in his face. The sudden act broke the rippling sensation over his body and he slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Mycroft, his best friend and secret fantasy, was an Omega. Not just any Omega, an Omega Dominant.

The thought was barely finished before he was up on his feet banging desperately on the solid wood surface.

“My, My, please let me in. Oh God, My, you have to let me in.”

Greg had never understood before why Alphas went so loopy around Omegas in Heat, but here and now, with an Omega who was his perfect match, he wondered how any of them managed to refrain from taking their Omegas right there in public the minute they went into Heat.

“Please leave, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was strained and breathless. Greg hoped, prayed, it was because the  pheromones his body must have started pumping out at first scenting were affecting his friend, _his_ _Omega_ , as much as Mycroft’s were him. “This is just because of the pheromones, merely the Estrus cycle.”

“No, no its not. Please, please Mycroft. I need you, please.” Greg was well aware he was begging, pleading, scratching at the door with his fingernails. If Mycroft didn’t open up soon, he’d be crying with the pressure of everything built up inside him, he just knew it.

Mycroft gave a garbled desperate laugh that never should have been dragged from those gorgeous lips. Oh Greg could just imagine what those lips would look like around him, how Mycroft would tease him as Greg lay helpless at the onslaught.

“Neither of us is gay, Gregory. We’re just affected by the chemicals, that’s all. I won’t let anything happen.”

No, no, no.

“Mycroft, please, you don’t understand, please.” Greg knew he whimpered. He knew that wasn’t very Alpha like. He didn’t care. This was fate, destiny, had to be, and Mycroft wasn’t letting him in.

“We’re the same dynamic, Gregory. It would never work long term. What if we Bonded? We’d kill each other in a month.” There was a hardness in Mycroft’s voice that Greg had learnt overtime to recognise as severe emotional pain. In his own way Mycroft’s voice was as pleading as his.

It hurt. Hearing that pain in his Omega’s voice physically hurt and he choked down a sob.

“I’m not a Dom.” He clawed frantically at the door. He didn’t care it was that Mycroft’s neighbours might hear, he didn’t care about people finding out or his career or anything. All he cared about was Mycroft opening the door.

There was silence, then a very cold, very dominant voice issued forth.

“If you think that is funny.” Greg found himself falling forward onto his hands and knees as the door was yanked open with no warning. “If you think this is the kind of situation where you can tell pathetic lies to get me to sleep with you, to mate with you because I’m that desperate...”

Mycroft was a tall, trembling tower of fury. His eyes were dark, with pupils blown open so wide there was almost no colour left. He wasn’t holding back as he usually did and every fibre of his body, every word he spoke, screamed Dominant, Dominant, Dominant. Greg didn’t think he’d ever seen him look more beautiful.

“I’m a Sub.” He choked out, eyes locked with Mycroft’s, unable even to blink under the strength of the gaze. “I swear to God, Mycroft, I’m a Sub.”

Mycroft paused, weighing, clearly evaluating the fact that Greg had never lied to him and the physical evidence against what he had known and believed the last three years.

Greg tried for a quirky grin, but barely managed a twitch. “Can we continue this inside with the door shut? I think your neighbours have had enough of a show.”

Mycroft froze.

“Please.” Greg whispered, pouring everything he felt into that one word and holding it up to the forbidding figure in front of him.

With a jerky nod, Mycroft spun and walked into the next room which was revealed as a sitting room of some kind. “You sit there.”

Greg hurried to the three seater settee. Or at least, he felt like he hurried, but moving in his tight, tight, why were they so tight, jeans was more than a little difficult with his raging erection. He fell more than sat on the cushion.

Mycroft moved to the single chair, placed not quite straight opposite, but still forward of the settee. The occupants of the two would easily manage a casual conversation from a distance. He didn’t sit, but moved forcefully to stand behind it, using it almost as a shield. His fingers drummed restlessly on the leather back. They were captivating. Months and years Greg had spent wondering what Mycroft’s house looked like and now he was in the sitting room and he couldn’t have told anyone the colour of the chair. Everything was surreal, out of focus, the only real thing in the room Mycroft’s long, restless, drumming fingers.

“ **Stay**.”

Greg hadn’t realised he’d begun to move forward, but at the barked command his body halted without thinking. Unfortunately this meant planting his left arsecheek on a non-existent surface and he found himself craning up to keep Mycroft’s face in view from a very inelegant sprawl on the floor.

Thoughts were flashing very quickly across Mycroft’s face, a sure sign how on edge he was. Only long familiarity with the Holmeses let Greg recognise even half of the thought process – cold (that was anger), cold with right eyebrow twitch (that was hurt), left curl of the lip (general thinking – re-evaluating in light of new information), rhythmic tightening and loosening of fingers (currently on back of chair, usually on umbrella – sign of distress). It was the thought in between each of these that Greg took stupidly long to recognise, though his brain was working under impaired operating conditions so he didn’t judge himself too harshly – wide hungry eyes, tongue flick over lips – lust and arousal.

Of course, the pheromones in the room weren’t only affecting him. Mycroft’s body was craving him as much as he was craving Mycroft’s, and God, was he craving Mycroft. Before the pheromones had been mostly trapped in the house, preventing him from sensing them for so long. Now, he was trapped in with them.

Suddenly the chair between them seemed less a shield against Greg, who Mycroft could clearly control with a word, so much as a self-imposed barrier for Mycroft. He didn’t trust _himself_ close to Greg.

The Alpha in Greg practically purred. Good, that was good. He could work with that. He’d started this night planning to hunt for a distraction, and by God, he was going to tree himself a Mate instead.

He met and held Mycroft’s gaze. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Getting me down here, on the floor.” He drew himself to his knees, but made no attempt to move towards Mycroft just yet. Instead he spread his knees just a _little_ bit wider and let his hands drift, palms up to his thighs, opening up, displaying himself.

Mycroft’s gaze broke first, travelling down Greg’s chest, along his arm, up his leg, long hungry pause at his groin, the other leg, the arm, long pause at his neck which Greg made sure to tip just the slightest to expose as much as possible, before finally back up to Greg’s eyes.

Greg didn’t bother to hide his smirk. He knew he looked good, dammed good. With his legs wide open the sizeable bulge between them was on full, apparently appreciated, display. The v-necked jumper and t-shirt drew attention to his neck, another favourite of most Doms, and he wished more than anything he was wearing his necklace. He would have loved to see My’s reaction to that. The dark leather of his cuffs was obscuring his wrists, the last of the three main stimuli for Alphas, and Greg was going to assume other Doms from the way Mycroft’s eyes kept travelling between his neck, groin and wrists, but he found he didn’t regret wearing them. He wasn’t a Dom, and as an Unbound Sub shouldn’t be wearing them at all, but they provided a distinct visual reminder that Sub or no, he was still an Alpha.

Mycroft jerked backwards, eyes jumping back to Greg’s face. “What are you doing?” His voice was strained, each word forced from his lips.

Greg slowly cocked his head to the right, enjoying the way Mycroft’s eyes dropped to the slow reveal of skin. He wondered if the Omega was aware exactly how often he was licking his lower lip, but then, from the smell, Mycroft had been in Heat for several hours now, and was probably very, very _hungry_.

“Don’t you like what you see?” He kept his voice soft, teasing. Luring.

“You’re not a Sub.” Mycroft’s eyes were still trailing along Greg’s neck. His reply was absent minded. He was clearly preoccupied.

“I never told you I was a Sub. That doesn’t mean I’m not.”

Mycroft’s eyes had reached his ear. Greg wondered whether he’d be as dedicated with his mouth, and felt a distinct pulse along his body at the thought of the hours of exquisite torture Mycroft might subject him too.

“You’re an Alpha.”

Their eyes met again and Greg re-evaluated his earlier opinion. This, with pupil’s blown wide, a glimmering lower lip, and convulsing fingers, this was Mycroft at his most stunning. Just knowing that he’d caused this, brought such a controlled Dominant to such an edge, was heady. He tilted his chin down slightly, so his eyes were obscured by his eyelashes.

Not seductive, but challenging.

“I’m very aware of that, Mr. Omega Dominant.”

Like clockwork Mycroft’s tongue darted out and over the lower lip. This time teeth joined it, pulling the lower left corner back into the moist cavern that was Mycroft’s mouth.

“You should leave.” Soft words, soft tone.

“I don’t want to.”

“This will change things.”

“I want it to.”

“Last chance.”

“Never.” Greg vowed.

An animalistic growl tore free of Mycroft’s throat. The chair was shoved violently to the side, over ending despite its weight, and Mycroft stalked forward. Greg was put very much in mind of a wild animal. This was what he was meant to be, what all his partners had been expecting? No wonder Josephine had left. He could never be this.

A hand fisted in his neckline and dragged him roughly upwards until his lips were against Mycroft’s. Without pause Mycroft’s tongue forced Greg’s lips open and dove inside.

The kiss hurt. Mycroft’s hand was supporting a good proportion of his weight and there was chest hair trapped in his grip. It was uncomfortable. His head was thrust back on a strange angle straining his neck and the sensation of being so close to the body producing all those tantalising pheromones made him feel like his head was bursting.

It was heaven.

Mycroft’s tongue was thrusting in and out of his mouth at an aggressive pace, pulling back only to bite hard on Greg’s lower lip before plunging in again, toying with Greg’s tongue, exploring every corner of his mouth, and running along his teeth.

Mycroft drew slightly back again to plant his teeth firmly in Greg’s lip. Greg was surprised he didn’t taste blood, but even in this Mycroft was exacting. He felt the moan escape his lips, his hearing unreliably drifting in and out of static.

“Already Gregory?” There was a cruel laugh in Mycroft’s voice, like it didn’t matter whether it was too much for Greg or not. “We’ve only just begun.”

“I’ve never Subbed for anyone before.” Greg couldn’t hear himself. Only Mycroft’s voice penetrated the white noise.

Mycroft laughed against his lips. Greg tried to lift himself higher to capture the Omega in another kiss, but he had no base to push off, his position only maintained by Mycroft’s grip.

“I’d gathered as much.”

The hand suddenly released and Greg found himself back on the floor, level with Mycroft’s shoes.

“Get up.”

Greg twitched his arms, attempting to get them to support him so he could push up onto his hands and knees, but they were trembling so hard he couldn’t rise off the floor. He’d just have to wait a second then –

“Get up **Now**.” There was dominance behind the order and Greg moved automatically to try again.

He slowly made it to standing, barely there before a hand was placed on the back of his head and he was pulled body to body, nose to nose against Mycroft. The boots did indeed mean he was eye to eye with Mycroft.

“We’re going to have to go over some rules, aren’t we Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice flowed smoothly over Greg, feather like tendrils of dominant influence playing over his skin. His eyes fell shut and he whimpered again, head instinctively falling back to offer Mycroft his neck. The hand on his skull held him in place, refusing his offer.

“In deference to your virginity,” with every word Mycroft’s lips ghosted over Greg’s, “I will explain things as we go, but” the hand behind his head yanked back to expose his neck and Mycroft lowered his mouth to the pulse point on the left side, “I will only tell you once. After that you will be appropriately punished.”

The teasing flicker of barely-there-lips was replaced with the tantalising knowledge Mycroft had run his nose up and down Greg’s neck and was inhaling him.

“Rule number one,” teeth grazed over the join of neck and shoulder just next to his shirt neckline, “if I give an order, you obey it instantly. Rule number two,” lips along the tendon, “your wishes do not matter. You’re here to please me, to pleasure me. Do not assume you will be granted release. Rule number three,” teeth grazing his earlobe, “that doesn’t matter. You are my Sub. You are aiming, my dear Gregory, to put yourself aside, to leave yourself entirely in my hands, to break, shape and re-align exactly,” tug “as” graze “I” bite “like.”

Greg’s earlobe was drawn fully into Mycroft’s mouth where tongue and teeth proceeded to bite and massage until it was red hot and tingling, at which point Mycroft let it fall from his lips.

Greg swallowed convulsively. “Safe....Safeword?” He managed to choke out.

The rumbling sub-vocal laugh was felt in the movement of Mycroft’s chest and the breath against Greg’s hair, not heard.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Francois Lestrade, there is no safeword.” The hand on the back of his head tightened again and his head forced forward again until their foreheads met. “If you wanted safe, Gregory, you should have left.”

Mycroft’s voice was dangerous, silken, and deep, sending shivers along his body.

“And if I changed my mind?” Greg’s voice sounded loud and rough after Mycroft’s deep dark tones.

A smirk pulled at the edge of Mycroft’s lips. “And have you?”

Cat toying with prey.

Greg knew what his answer should be. He was a police officer. He knew better than to agree to sex without a safeword. He’d seen the bedrooms that had become crime scenes, worked with traumatised Subs (and Doms) who couldn’t get their partners to stop when they were past their comfort zones and in to true danger.

“Never.”

Mycroft took a step back, releasing Greg’s head. Greg refused to let his body lean after him.

“That’s what I thought. Besides,” the predatory look travelled the length of Greg’s body again, “it’s too late. You already had your final chance. **Bedroom now**.”

The last was a barked order. Greg practically jumped for the door before his brain caught up with his body and told him he didn’t know where to go.

“ **Forward**.”

Greg obediently walked straight down the hall.

“ **Up**.”

With distance from Mycroft and his ‘scent’ the walking cleared Greg’s head a bit.

Enough to wonder what he was doing; this was so far from anything he’d ever engaged in that, thirty years as a Dom or not, he had no measure for the rest of the evening.

Enough to know he didn’t care.

Enough for the full force of his aching erection to hit him from wherever his senses had retreated to. The arousal caused him to stumble on the last step, grinding his trapped erection painfully against his jeans.

“ **Left**.”

There was a definite amusement in Mycroft’s voice. Greg wondered absently where the restrained, frantic man who had hidden behind his chair had gone, or was he merely a by-product of the extraordinary level of control Mycroft had been exercising over himself to stop from jumping Greg on the verge?

“ **Left**.”

Every direction sent tingles down Greg’s spine and added awkwardly to the heat pooled at its base. It occurred to him that this was the real Mycroft he had never had the opportunity to meet before – the one NOT holding back his dominance. In fact, Greg was willing to bet that having let the last of his controls fall away Mycroft didn’t even realise he was putting dominant force behind each direction.

Christ almighty, no wonder the Dom was so tightly controlled if his every word was naturally a dominant command.

The door to his left revealed the bedroom. Wardrobe, carpet, walls, paintings, all Greg’s tunnel vision saw was the intricate wrought iron headboard of the bed. His teeth sunk into his lip at the thought of all the different positions it would allow Mycroft to bind a partner, _him_ , into.

“Kneel.”

Greg went to turn to face Mycroft.

“ **Now**.”

This time there was deliberate dominance behind the word and Greg dropped quickly to his knees eyes focusing on the floor. He could see Mycroft’s leather shoes move to stand in front of him. Fingers tilted his chin up.

“Disobedient already. What was rule number one, Gregory?”

Greg cringed. “I was just-”

“Rule number four – speak only if asked and then only as asked. Rule number one, Gregory.”

Greg forced himself to start speaking even as his body swayed with the force of Mycroft’s words. “Obey instantly.”

“Very good.” Gentle words. Dark, caressing words. “As your first offence, we will keep the punishment light.” The finger disappeared from under his chin with a caress. Mycroft strolled, no sashayed, over to the bedside table.

“Stay.” He threw back over his shoulder almost as an afterthought.

Greg stayed stock still, eyes up and forward, gaze directed at Mycroft’s taut, tight arse. As far as views went, the one as Mycroft leant over to examine the contents of the drawer could be much, much worse. At the sight Greg’s Alpha purred and flexed in his mind. That, that was the goal. Him, buried to the hilt, pounding into Mycroft’s arse, flooding his body with his seed, trapping it all his his mate’s body with his knot, again and again and again until...

Mycroft straightened and let Greg know with a quirked eyebrow that his thoughts were very much known and that the trigger had been very, very deliberate.

Sub or no, Greg was an Alpha and he would not be toyed with. He sent a snarl across the room, receiving only a smirk in return. In a slow, very deliberate, motion Mycroft slid one arm and then the other out of his jacket and moved across the room out of view to hang it up.

Greg growled low in his throat, but kept his eyes forward. “I thought Omegas were meant to be gagging for it when in Heat?”

Arms came from behind to grip his wrists just above the cuffs and slide all the way up and across his chest, crossing over his stomach. He hadn’t heard the Dom come up behind him or kneel down.

“And you think I’m not? You think I’m not craving your cock; that my body’s not begging for your knot?” Mycroft’s voice was thick in Greg’s ear. There was just something about hearing Mycroft’s highbrow, cultured voice say ‘cock’ that made Greg shiver. Mycroft’s hands wondered freely, teasingly skirting the edges of nipples and dragging nails up Greg’s sensitive inner arm. “Is that what you want to see, is it Gregory? Me, on my knees, begging, crying, pleading with you to take me?”

While the image Mycroft painted was intoxicating, the _idea_ that such a Dom could be brought so low, Greg couldn’t deny he felt his erection wilt. His head was pulled sharply back onto Mycroft’s shoulder, the other hand coming up to splay on his chest. “Because you won’t get that, Gregory. I am a Dom and you will take me on _my_ terms and _my_ terms alone.”

That made Greg’s pants uncomfortably tight uncomfortably fast again. His head was turned slightly and he found his nose buried in Mycroft’s neck just behind and below his ear. The sudden influx of concentrated pheromones made his head spin and his lips and tongue latched onto the area, greedy for more. Mycroft hadn’t said he couldn’t touch, and this was an invitation he could never have refused.

Mycroft’s pulse thrummed under his mouth, the only indication he had that Mycroft was as undone by all this as he was. He suckled harder and grazed his teeth lightly over the spot. It was difficult to do with no hands to brace and help him capture the flesh between his teeth, but the low moan which finally, finally, flooded past Mycroft’s lips was reward and inspiration in one.

Mycroft’s skin tasted slightly salty where the Omega was sweating, but the overarching taste was of pheromones. They didn’t really have a taste, same as they didn’t really have a smell, but that didn’t stop Greg’s taste buds telling him that here was something musky, slightly gingery, and all over decadent that he just had to have more of.

Hesitantly he brought his hands into play, drifting them slowly up and down the grey suit pants. Oh he wished they were tighter, but these were by far Mycroft’s least fitted pair left over from his days just starting his diet. They were an aberration in his tailored wardrobe that Greg had never understood until now, obviously saved for the days Mycroft was sensitive and going through Heat. Greg’s left hand inadvertently moved higher as Mycroft twitched under the caress and Greg’s heart missed a beat as he squeezed the round arse cheek suddenly in his grip.

“Gregory.”

Mycroft moaning _his_ name. Greg flicked his tongue on the jumping pulse point as his right hand joined the left pulling Mycroft snugly against his back. There was the smallest catch in Mycroft’s breathing as his erection was brought into firm contact with Greg, who couldn’t resist raising and lowering himself slightly to rub the hard length against his buttocks and lower back.

He’d never let himself imagine Mycroft before. That sort of locker room banter had never been an element in their relationship, but now...Mycroft felt very sizable, very hard, and very hot pressed against Greg’s back. Even through the suit pants Greg could feel the distinct temperature difference between Mycroft’s thighs and groin.

“I do think I’ve let you carry on quite long enough.” There was an audible catch in Mycroft’s voice, but it was still firm. The sense of loss as he stood and Greg was deprived of that pressure along his body was indescribable.

His hands unoccupied again, Greg let them drift to his groin where he began to frantically palm his cock through the material. Mycroft’s toe, shoeless - when had that happened - moved them firmly away. It also prevented Greg leaning forward to bury his face in Mycroft’s groin, erection prominently displayed in the light material.

Greg shook his head in frustration and a small noise he couldn’t classify escaped his throat.

“Don’t worry, Gregory. It’s not the elaborate first time I would have preferred with you, but under the circumstances.” Mycroft had trouble verbalising the last word, the arousal catching well and truly up with him. “Gregory.”

The hand which pulled upwards was as much a command as any verbal order and Greg was too happy to comply, lips latching onto Mycroft’s mouth as soon as he was in range. In an uncoordinated mess of flying limbs and mashing teeth they stumbled to the bed. Greg’s fingers were tangled as much as possible in Mycroft’s short hair as Mycroft’s fumbled with his trousers’ button and zipper which refused to budge.

With a groan Mycroft tore his mouth away. “Strip!”

Electricity danced along his arms as Greg yanked the t-shirt and jumper over his head. His fingers fumbled at his jeans, loosing grip of the button at the sight of Mycroft reclined on the bed. He should have looked ridiculous with his white shirt crumpled out of shape, grey vest askew, and trousers tented obscenely. He didn’t. He looked imperial, predatory, and Dominant.

Greg’s fingers finally negotiated the button and yanked the zipper down. The relief as the tight pressure on his erection released drew a grunt from between his lips, despite the fact it was still trapped against his stomach by the tight black trunks he’d worn underneath. Greg had the jeans down to his knees before he twigged that he’d need to remove his boots to get them off. He forcefully yanked them back up, his cock instantly complaining at its renewed restriction, and perched on the edge of the bed to tear off his shoes and socks. He was too aroused to even feel embarrassed at the garish Christmas pattern.

Jeans and underwear had never been removed faster. Finally he stood there, cock hard and aching, curled upwards towards his belly. The red glans was already glistening with fluid, more than Greg had ever seen coating the tip before sex. He snaked a hand between his legs and tugged his balls down, trying to relieve even a little of the razor sharp edge of arousal.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Greg allowed himself one more tug and stopped.

“Now me.” Mycroft’s voice, if possible, had dropped even lower. He levered off the bed and stood before Greg, who started on the vest before Mycroft was even balanced.

‘Soon,’ The Alpha in his mind chanted. ‘Soon, so soon. Claim mate soon.’

Greg used the time as he undid each button to kiss his way up Mycroft’s neck, biting and licking along the exposed flesh eliciting breathy sighs and hiccupping gasps. Vest gone, the tie was soon disposed of, then the shirt, and oh that was better because now Greg could mouth along the collarbone and down the defined pectoral to the flushed nipple just waiting for his attention. It was awkward, bending to keep his mouth latched firmly around the nub of flesh as he pushed the silk dress shirt down each arm, but having reached his prize Greg refused to let it go. He nibbled as the shirt joined the rest on the floor, sucked as he raked fingernails down to the belt buckle, and kissed his way to its partner as the belt glided easily through belt loops.

A hand pulled him back and a strangled noise emerged from his throat as the sensitive head of his cock rubbed along Mycroft’s fabric covered leg. Mycroft’s hand slid behind his neck, apparently the Omega’s preferred hold, and Greg parted his lips expectantly for the kiss. He wasn’t disappointed, Mycroft’s tongue plunging straight in against his own.

While Mycroft fucked his mouth with his tongue, Greg’s surprisingly steady fingers ripped open his fly, sending the top button flying with an overloud pop. His lip received a warning bite in response.

Under his suit Mycroft was clad in nothing more substantial than wispy thin black silk boxers lying sodden against his own leaking cock’s tip. There was a matching wet patch on his thigh near his hip where Greg’s erection had leaked through the suit, but more importantly, when Greg cupped his rear without the suit in the way, the back of the garment was soaked.

With a groan the Alpha broke free and Greg lifted Mycroft up off the floor and practically threw the Omega on the bed. The final barrier was removed and Mycroft was there, fully naked before him. Greg’s cock twitched and bobbed in response to the sight.

It was nothing like his half baked, much repressed fantasies. Nothing could have prepared him for the actual sight of Mycroft’s long lean body, his swollen cock longer than Greg’s own, but narrower and a deep flushed red to almost purple at the tip. Most of all, nothing could have prepared him for the smell, for the absolute release of scents both real and chemical which assaulted him as the last concealing barrier fell away.

Greg scrambled to all fours, perched over Mycroft’s body. His mouth latched onto the nipple he’d left off abusing, determined to lavish it with attention until it matched its counterpart while one hand, weight firmly balanced on the other, made its way between Mycroft’s legs.

He bypassed Mycroft’s cock with a single firm stroke which caused a breathy exhale from between pursed lips. He caressed the two balls curled almost as tightly to Mycroft’s body with arousal as Greg’s were to his own, and then sunk his fingers home with a swift and final move.

This was what made Omegas special, he thought as Mycroft arched right up off the bed. This was what the Estrus cycle was all about. There was no need to prep Mycroft the way there would have been a Beta, no need to go slowly like there was with some women. Mycroft’s arse was already ready for him, clenching around the two fingers Greg had plunged straight in. With every rhythmic pulse of the muscles more lubricant dripped out over Greg’s palm. If he’d ever held doubts that Mycroft was as desperate for this as him they were dispelled by the rapid rate at which his palm slicked.

Greg yanked his fingers out and lined up, the top of his cock brushing against Mycroft’s hole. His Omega. He was finally at the point of claiming Mycroft as _his_ Omega. He could feel it already, the wet warmth as Mycroft’s body welcomed him in as eagerly as his pheromones had enticed; the give as Greg drove harder and faster into him, over and over until they both came in an explosion both physical and mental, filling Mycroft with Greg’s seed, giving him what both their bodies so frantically craved – a child. Their child.

Greg’s eyes fluttered closed at the thought, almost enough to make him come on the spot. Mating with Mycroft. Knotting Mycroft. Breeding Mycroft. Mycroft. He shifted his weight forward to push in.

“ **Stop**.”

The Alpha raged, the Alpha howled and beat and cried, but Mycroft had ordered with every instance of dominance and the Sub in Greg had to obey as much as the Alpha had to claim.

“My? Oh God, My, don’t, you’re killing me.” He didn’t push in, but he couldn’t pull back either, so strong was the need to mate. “My, p-please!”

“On your back.” Mycroft pushed on his shoulder, helping force him to roll over.

Greg unashamedly allowed the tears fall down his cheeks. He _needed_ Mycroft _now!_ The pressure, the drive to mate was more than he could bear, but he couldn’t move, bound by Mycroft’s order.

A thumb wiped away the tears. “None of that, My Dear One. I told you, you take me at my will and on my terms alone.”

Greg closed his eyes and leant into the caress. Mycroft had also said Greg couldn’t be sure of coming, but surely tonight...?

Surely TONIGHT being Alpha and Omega was more important and more driving than Sub and Dom.

With his eyes closed Greg couldn’t see Mycroft line himself up to suddenly impale himself on Greg’s cock, burying the Alpha to the hilt in one move.

“Jesus Christ!” Greg’s body flailed up off the bed, his hips automatically beginning to thrust up into the Omega’s body. “My!”

“That’s it, Gregory. Fuck me, take me hard.”

Greg needed no more encouragement. His hands left the bed spread for Mycroft’s waist and he began to thrust wildly into the delicious heat.

“Harder, Gregory. Ungh, harder, oh, oh yes, like that, like ah!”

Mycroft’s voice broke as Greg changed the angle of his last thrust and finally found the bundle of nerves he’d been searching for. He thrust again and again, each jab producing a keen from the Omega above him.

“You like that do you, love? You like feeling me deep in you. You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?” The words flowed from his mouth as he pistonned faster and faster into the welcoming depths above him. With each movement Mycroft’s hole swallowed his entire length feeling for the world like crushed velvet being dragged up and down his cock.

Every breathy moan, every downward thrust of Mycroft’s body against him as the Omega added his own movement to the action, built and built and built inside him. With each snap of the hips, every advance, every retreat, driving him to completion, Greg found Mycroft getting tighter and tighter around him as he swelled, intensifying the friction and increasing the build.

“Getting close are we?” Mycroft purred from above him. “I think it’s time I informed you, ungh, of rule number...number five.”

Mycroft slammed down extra hard against him. Greg gasped and moaned as he felt the slightest squirt of semen from his cock. Mycroft evidently felt it too as he pulled right up to the end of Greg’s cock and paused. “Rule number five, Gregory. You can’t come until I do.”

As he finished speaking Mycroft pushed down taking Greg deep back into his body.

“And you want to come, don’t you Greg? There’s nothing you want more than to spill into me, to knot me, to try your best to breed me.”

Greg couldn’t answer, his brain too occupied with moving his hands from Mycroft’s hips to Mycroft’s cock while re-establishing the rhythm he had pounding into Mycroft’s arse to formulate a response.

“Oh yes, just like that, yes, yes, come on Greg, take me hard. Yes, fill me, come on Greg, I need you. Fuck me, claim me, breed me, oh God, Greg, faster. Make me come, make me come and fill me. Come on Greg, oh God, knot me.”

Blood roared in Greg’s ears, blurring Mycroft’s litany. Singular words penetrated the haze – hard, fuck, breed, oh how he wanted the last. His thumb flicked over the head of Mycroft’s cock, and then swirled down the length as a stroke. Again, again, faster, faster. The heat in his groin had begun to move, throbbing through his balls up his thickening cock. If Mycroft didn’t come soon...he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer.

“Yes, Greg, Greg, Gregory!”

Mycroft’s head lolled backwards, exposing his pale throat as he came over Greg’s chest with a shout. A primal sound between a shout of triumph and a moan of pleasure broke over Greg’s lips as he thrust once, twice into Mycroft’s shuddering body and saw his own vision white out, his body thrusting up one final time to bury itself as deep into Mycroft as possible, releasing its load.

Waves and waves of pleasure broke over him, verging by the fifth one on the edge of pain, and still he felt Mycroft convulse around him, milking him for more. Slowly the tremors calmed and Mycroft lowered himself as best he was able to lie on Greg’s chest without dislodging his cock.

Not that he could have if he’d tried. Greg gave an experimental wiggle and a moan of pleasure as Mycroft spasmmed around him in response. He was well and truly locked in, the knot at the base of his cock ensuring absolutely nothing would drip out, giving the maximum change of impregnation.

A shudder ran suddenly through his body and he felt another almost full load shoot into Mycroft. He whimpered at the rhythmic milking by Mycroft’s muscles – the Omega’s body knew what it wanted and it was taking it without abandon.

“God.”

Mycroft chuckled against Greg’s neck. Hesitantly Greg raised an arm and slung it over Mycroft’s body, unsure whether the affectionate gesture would be well received. It wasn’t removed, so he took that as permission to bring the other to join it.

They lay there in silence for a good fifteen minutes as Greg drifted in and out of thought, enjoying the feel of Mycroft in his arms, the smell of him filling his nose. He ducked his chin awkwardly and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s hair.

“That was...” He trailed off, unsure what to say. He had never experienced anything like that.

Mycroft stirred in his arms. “My dear Gregory. The Omega pushed up until he was hovered over Greg, a distinctly predatory look back in his eye. “You didn’t think it was over did you? We’ve only just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, an easier to follow summary of my version of the genders and their interactions. I actually first came across Omegaverse in a different fandom, before Sherlock was even created, and the model there was four genders (Alpha, Beta, Omega, and Female) rather than the slightly more standard version you see now of 6, and that's what I've used.  
> Alpha - Always (they thought) Doms; can reproduce with Omegas or Females.  
> Omega - Always (ditto) Subs; can reproduce with Alphas or Betas  
> Betas - can be either Subs or Doms; used to be able to produce sterile offspring (Deltas) with Females  
> Females - can be either Subs or Doms;
> 
> A+O = A or O  
> A + F = F or B  
> B + O = F or B  
> F + B = Delta (no longer being born - scientists unsure why no longer able to reproduce together)
> 
> The more Dominant or Submissive you are, the more attractive that is to the respective Sub/Dom, however other factors such as primary gender preference (male or female) and physical looks (some people really do just prefer blondes, or really want a fiery red head) do also apply. This does mean though that Omegas generally aren't popular as not only do they have all the (slowly being stamped out) Sub related prejudices, they're also mistrusted by other Subs. 
> 
> Hopefully that clears things up a bit. If you have more questions, feel free to drop me a comment and I'll reply to those, either as a comment or in a note on the next chapter if it's a fairly common thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday everyone! Hope you all had a good weekend! Thanks so much for all the comments on last week's chapter. I did read and love them all.
> 
> To answer the question as to updates, my hope is to be able to upload two or three chapters a week for the next part given it is all written already, but it's going to depend when my beta has time to go through them and get them back to me. I am aware how long it is though and that people from the Kinkmeme have already read to the end of it, so definitely going to try and make it quick on the uploads.
> 
> If it's any consolation, I'm using the time to write as much of Part III as I can?
> 
> Once again, please take everything BDSM in this chapter/story with as salt as you can get. It's written as being borderline for an AU where everyone is D/S, so keep that in mind and definitely do not take it to heart.

“W..what?” Greg let out a small moan as he gave another spasm deep in Mycroft’s body. This appeared to be his cock’s final offering as the knot at its base shrank.

Mycroft’s grin lost none of its wild edge at Greg’s stumbled question. He sat back so he was kneeling and one hand cupped Greg’s cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth over the skin.

“Did you really think I’d forget about your punishment?”

Greg heard a click right in his ear and belatedly realised Mycroft had raised his arm to handcuff him to the intricate headboard. He watched transfixed as Mycroft drew another set of cuffs out from under the pillow and dangled them provocatively from one finger. These were clearly what Mycroft had fetched out of the drawer while Greg had been oogling his arse.

He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing tremulously. He’d never been on the receiving end of even this most basic of bondage items before.

“Now, how do I want you to start with?” Mycroft all but purred as he swung the cuffs around and around and around in his left hand. Greg couldn’t stop his attention being drawn almost exclusively to the swinging gear.

They were nice cuffs, Greg heard a hazy part of his mind comment. Thin black leather straps connected by a very fine black metal chain. If they were anything like the ones he was already secured in the leather was cushioned with significant amounts of padding to ensure no damage to the wearer’s wrists. Greg swallowed again and felt his softened cock twitch. These cuffs were made for prolonged bouts of usage.

Mycroft laughed softly and climbed off Greg’s lap, finally allowing his spent cock free.

“I’ll bet you’ve never played with anything like these.” Mycroft allowed one end of the cuff to fall onto Greg’s stomach, carefully avoiding the congealed semen. The metal links were cool as they trickled along his body.

Greg shook his head. “Never.” He admitted. He’d always used rougher cuffs, designed to give a dangerous exhilarating edge to play.

“You used the harsh edge, didn’t you? The edge of pretend violence in the toys to hide the lack of it in you and push them rapidly to satisfaction.”

Greg nodded again, eyes still drawn to the black leather. “Yes.”

“Anything to get it over with quickly, before you couldn’t force it anymore.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft leaned in close, breath ghosting across Greg’s lips. “Well I assure you Gregory, these will not be quick.”

The unspoken insinuation that Mycroft didn’t need the cuffs to provide that edge, didn’t _need_ to make it quick, hung tantalisingly between them.

The right hand returned to stroke Greg’s cheek. “I will throw you deep, deep into subspace and I will hold you there, for a long long time.” Mycroft’s words ghosted over cheeks, lips and eyelids as he moved all over Greg’s face, never quite touching. “You’ve never been taken into Subspace, have you Gregory? But you’re so sensitive, so responsive. You were almost there earlier, from nothing more than my voice and a kiss. Can you imagine what I can do to you now, with the initial burn satisfied? With time and all this...help.”

Greg held himself still. Some ancient instinct in his mind was screaming ‘danger, danger’ and an equally old instinct was revelling in the call, rearing up to twine around it.

“Now,” Mycroft pulled sharply back and his voice lost the soft edge. “Turn over. Hands against the headboard.”

Greg clambered to his knees and turned around. The movement was slightly clumsy with one hand cuffed to the bed, but once he had rotated around and gripped one of the bars there was plenty of slack in the existing restraint. Enough to offer him a choice of bars to rest his hands on even. Mycroft casually slipped the matching cuff around Greg’s free left hand. He had to nudge Greg’s bracelets slightly higher up his forearm in order to close it, and the presence of both on his arm made Greg feel very strongly caged, even if only one inch of the three encircling his wrist was actually restraining him.

“Good,” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him. “What shall we start with?”

Greg wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to answer or not. If he was and he didn’t, he broke rule number one. If he wasn’t and he did he broke rule number four.

“No suggestions? Oh well, I have plenty of ideas.”

The drawer to Greg’s right slid open, the same one Mycroft had removed the handcuffs from earlier. Greg turned his head to see its contents.

“Eyes forward.” Mycroft barked.

So much for anticipating what might be coming.

There were the sounds of Mycroft picking up items, weighing them, considering, and then returning them to their places.

“In some ways it’s such a pity, you know, the timing. Oh the things I could use on you otherwise. Like this.” A ring of leather appeared in Greg’s field of view. “I think you’d look good in this, don’t you Gregory?” Greg watched the cock ring drift back and forth in front of his eyes. “ If I could do what I’d like to. Imagine all the hours I could spend teasing your body, how long I would ride you never letting you come, how long I’d keep you hard for me. You would stay hard the whole time, wouldn’t you Gregory, watching me use you for my pleasure, that’d be enough to keep you up and poised for me.”

Greg shuddered under the verbal assault and felt and answering and distinct twitch in his cock at Mycroft’s careful words.

“Fortunately for you, or maybe given the obvious pleasure the idea gives you unfortunately, that’s not what we’re doing tonight. Because I don’t want to deny you, to keep you waiting for hours. No, no, as soon as you’re able, as soon as your body’s recovered, we’re going again and you’re going to come long and hard over and over while your knot fills me, and then Gregory, when I’ve milked you dry, we’re going to play some more. Then we’ll go again and again until such time as _I_ direct otherwise.” The cock ring was removed from Greg’s vision with a snap and Mycroft leant in close. “Right now, everything else is just filler, Gregory, filler while we wait for your eager cock to provide.”

Lips trailed down over Greg’s shoulder, heading towards his elbow. Mycroft’s pheromones might have been muted as his body also recovered, but that didn’t stop proximity delivering a heavy dose of the chemicals to Greg’s receptors, and tonguing his way down Greg’s arm put Mycroft in very close proximity. Greg felt his cock twitch again and attempt vainly to rise.

Teeth grazed his arm and Greg rotated his head to see. In response Mycroft’s teeth clamped down firmly driving deep enough into Greg’s right bicep that there was sure to be an outline and maybe some blood. Greg bit his lower lip, not quite sure if it was to squash a whine of pain or pleasure.

“Disobeying again?” Mycroft’s voice was light. Greg swore mentally and quickly looked forward. “Oh Gregory, what am I doing to do with you? Another punishment already.”

Mycroft moved back, one leg still bent on the bed, the other standing on the side. Greg wished he could turn to see his expression, but that seemed like a very bad idea.

“Forty strokes with the paddle I believe will suit.” A solitary finger glided down Greg’s spine.

“What?” Greg reflexively pulled at his bindings and turned incredulously to the Dom. “Forty!!!” He never gave any of his Subs that many strokes and never for a single offence.

The finger left his back. “ **Face forward, straight up**.” The command was at full dominance. A hand dug into his hair and yanked Greg’s head back. Still trembling sensitively from the command it hurt. “I had thought it unnecessary, but apparently even the most basic concepts must be explained to you. Rule Zero, never **_ever_** question me.”

Greg whimpered and his head was abruptly released to fall forward. Mycroft was furious.

“I’m sorry.” Greg knew he was breaking rule number four, but having his Dom, his Omega, so angry at him hurt more than his stinging scalp. He’d do anything, _anything_ , to thaw that cold fury, even if it meant more punishment.

“You have to try, Gregory. Don’t say you are. You’re treating this as a game, as if it’s light hearted fantasy.”

Greg hung his head and acknowledged the truth of Mycroft’s words. It wasn’t that he didn’t realise it was serious, but he wasn’t treating it as fervently as he had initially, watching Mycroft stalk across the room downstairs. Seeing Mycroft undone had lessened the razor edge leaving Greg feeling more complacent, more like because he was an Alpha and Mycroft was an Omega he would have special treatment and shouldn’t be held to the same standards as other Subs. Even he was pray to the arrogance typical of his gender, he knew that.

He had always been fairly relaxed when he Dommed, preferring to have as much input from his Sub partner as possible to help him guide the session, but many true Doms, especially extremely dominant Doms, held to the old standards of behaviour within a partnership very strictly.

Greg trembled slightly. He didn’t even know what most of those behavioural protocols were, having ignored them all his life, and Mycroft was very Dominant.

“I’ll be better.” He choked. Would Mycroft stop here and now if he wasn’t?

“Subbing isn’t entirely instinct Gregory, a lot of it is training, as much of it is for a good Dominant. You’ve denied your nature for so long you’ve destroyed those instincts and you have no training to fall back on. It means you need to focus more and try harder, not less.”

“I will.” Greg whispered.”I promise.”

The hand drifted gently down his back and Greg knew he was, though not forgiven, excused. Relief so strong it scared him thundered through his body, radiating from the drifting touch.

“You will try harder, Gregory, but I am not unreasonable, nor am I handicapped by my instincts. Forty strokes. Ten for your initial disobedience, 15 for each of your subsequent offences. For questioning me, the last fifteen strokes will be upgraded to the crop, not the paddle.”

Greg swallowed. He only remembered two mistakes. “May I ask what my third offence was?” He kept his tone deferential.

“Orders do not have to be verbal, Gregory, as you yourself acknowledged earlier by obeying, but not before one last defiant act. Or were you operating under the belief that I wasn’t aware?”

“No, Mycroft.”

“Sir or Master during a session, Gregory. I am old fashioned in this.”

“Sorry, Master.”

He’d meant to say Sir, which was at least less artificial sounding than Master, but at the last minute his voice took on a life of its own, and Christ Almighty if hearing the title come out of his mouth didn’t start anew the low burn in his abdomen.

“Much better, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was back from frozen ice to melting dark chocolate. Evidently he enjoyed the sound of it too. “Rule number four applies again, with the singular exception of counting your strokes.”

Greg nodded in acknowledgement, electric sparks raising goose bumps with their now familiar dominant tingle. It shouldn’t be too hard. Even he had made his Subs count out the strokes he’d used on them.

Mycroft left one last lingering caress on Greg’s back. Greg had to repress a shiver. The absence of the steady soothing stroke so soon after the emotional upheaval left him feeling shaky.

“Relax, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him. The Dom was obviously standing at the side of the bed, preparing for Greg’s punishment.

Greg tried, but without the physical contact it was hard. The Sub was aware of arguing with his Dom, the Alpha super conscious of upsetting his Omega.

“Relax, Gregory. Trust me, as your Dominant, to give you what you need.”

‘I need you.’ Greg’s mind screamed. ‘I need to hold you, to know that you’re there and not going to go.’

“No you don’t. That’s only what you think you need.” There was the soft caress of high end leather across Greg’s buttocks. “Spread wide, Gregory.”

Greg rearranged his knees to give him a wider base and braced his hands on the iron rail.

“One lower.”

Greg obediently dropped his hands. The lower level was at the far end of the chains on the cuffs and forced him to bend over.

“That’s good.”

The leather drifted across his skin again. Small circular motions, long strokes, they bled into each other as Greg forced himself to take calming breaths. He could manage this.

The paddle came down sharply on his right buttock. Greg let out a surprised sound that was absolutely not a yelp and belatedly gasped out “One.”

The paddle came down again on his left buttock.

“Two.”

Right, near the top.

“Three.”

Left near the bottom.

“Four.”

Right, right, left, right, left, left.

It didn’t so much hurt, Greg decided as he counted out each of the strokes, as burn. There was an initial sting, especially once the strokes began to overlap, but that faded before it really registered and left him feeling flushed and warm. It wasn’t even a bad feeling.

Left.

“Eleven.”

His cock twitched, anticipating the next blow. Greg couldn’t believe it when he felt his body push back into it as it landed across both cheeks.

“Tw...welve.” He stuttered in disbelief.

Again and again the paddle came down, and again and again Greg surprised himself by enjoying it. Once his body had warmed up, the feeling was definitely pleasing. The warmth which radiated from his arse, the solid connection of the paddle, the dull thwack of the leather, all of it came together making him feel calm in a way he didn’t understand.

“Twenty.”

The numbers were getting both easier and harder to say. Easier as he wasn’t cringing from the pain, but was embracing it so there were no other sounds to fight with. Harder as his focus kept trying to shift to the paddle and Mycroft and when the next strike was going to fall. The Dom was deliberately keeping his blows random and timing irregular.

“Twenty two.” He was sounding breathy, he knew it. The heat at the base of his spine was building and building and slowly he felt his cock start to respond.

“Twenty five.”

A hand drifted over his arse, the soft cool contact bringing into focus exactly how each cheek burned. Greg’s cock twitched again.

Without warning a sound whistled through the air. Greg did let out a yelp, as his already abused buttocks felt the riding crop with no warning. Unlike the paddle which had momentarily stung then generated a pleasant dull burn, the crop bit and continued to sting long after Mycroft had withdrawn it from his flesh.

“O..One.” He gasped out.

The tip of the crop traced the line it had just left across him.

“The count continues, Gregory, it does not reset. Five extra for the wrong number.”

Greg whimpered. He’d been able to handle the paddle, but this, this could hurt.“Twenty six.”

The crop came down again. “Twenty seven.”

Again and Greg bit his lip. This time the lash had overlapped the previous strokes and the bite was compounded.

“Twenty eight.”

He could feel each stroke as a raised line across his skin. There was no low, throbbing burn from these. Each was a bright hard flicker of flame indelibly marking his skin. He was suddenly very aware of how easy it would be for Mycroft to permanently damage him and that there was no safeword.

“Twenty nine.”

He clenched his fingers tight around the bar and tensed as he waited for the next stroke. Instead he felt the crop trailing gently over each of the lines it had inflicted, a silent order to relax. Greg took a deep shuddering breath in, and then let it out. Breathing in again, he forced each muscle to go limp as the exhale past his lips. Only when every muscle had gone soft did the next stroke fall.

“Thirty.”

The number flashed through his head. The number, he’d focus on the numbers. Not what he was on, not counting down to the end, each number. The shape of it. Thirty was round, all curvy lines and soft corners.

“Thirty one.”

Thirty one was strange, soft lines with a sharp stop next to them. The one reminded him of the line on his skin, made it less real.

“Thirty two.”

There was nothing special about thirty two, ah, but thirty three, thirty three was entirely curvy again, but lonely, with the curves facing away from each other. Or maybe they were spooning. He waited for the next blow and found himself relishing it as it came.

“Thirty three.”

Yes, he decided. He liked thirty three. It was a calm number, its figures happy to hold each other, relaxed enough in each other’s presence to not require face to face contact.

“Thirty four.”

Thirty four reminded him of a fight, the three turning resolutely from the sharp shape of its companion.

“Thirty five.”

Thirty five blurred as his vision sank away. Instead he heard his mind telling him about thirty five, about how its numbers stood back to back, either ignoring or protecting each other. He preferred to say protecting.

“Thirty six.”

His voice sounded distant and a gentle hum filled his ears. The sting of the stroke felt less like the bite of an inanimate object and more like the sting of Mycroft’s teeth in his arm, an intimate wound left for an intimate purpose.

“Thirty seven.”

The pain didn’t bother him anymore, with that thought. Instead the brief sting made his body shudder in pleasure, lifting him up slightly, and dropping him down further from the world.

“Thirty eight.”

The number sailed past his head. He felt his mouth say it, knew he’d managed without stumbling, but couldn’t hear or conceive it.

“Thirty nine.”

The burn in his buttocks had spread well and truly through his body, filling the liquid pool at the base of his spine. Greg focused on it, feeling it move in his body almost like a living creature. A serpent maybe, from the way it was curling around his insides.

“Forty.”

The crop came down again, crossing over other lashes, and Greg sighed in pleasure. The exhale ghosted around his body, feeling more like he’d inhaled and the oxygen was spreading through muscles than exhaled and let it all go.

“Forty one.”

He knew he could scar, knew that if My wasn’t careful there could be permanent repercussions from this, but he didn’t care and arched into the stroke, wishing it was harder. He let go, knowing his Dom was there and in control.

“Forty two.”

His thoughts were jumbled around him, completely unrecognisable, but he knew he wanted this feeling, had craved it. Mycroft had been right, had known what he needed: that he needed to let go and trust his Dom.

“Forty three.”

The release was amazing. Mycroft had brought him here, had freed him, and Greg trusted him to bring him back.

Trusted him to be there waiting for him when he did return.

“Forty four.”

His chest rumbled, expanding and contracting in a sound. He didn’t know what he said, what he released.

“Forty five.”

He waited in limbo for the next stroke, for that next bite of clarity. It didn’t come. He whimpered.

“It’s alright, Gregory.” Hands gripped his face, tilting it upwards to a soft caress of lips. “You should see yourself right now. You’re so beautiful.”

Greg leaned into the hands, grounding himself in the feeling of something solid.

“Your buttocks are flushed pink you know, from the paddle, and decorated with strokes. Each line one I put on you. My lines.”

Breath ghosted over his lips and teeth gently tugged.

“You are beautiful.”

A hand disappeared from his face and he felt fingers loosening his grip on the bed. He was turned on his back and distantly felt his hand returned to the headboard.

Warmth surrounded him, tantalising his senses.

“Come back to me, Gregory.”

The warmth moved, and through the haze Greg was aware of Mycroft catching his lips in a gentle kiss.

“Come back up to me.”

His Dom was calling, and Greg felt himself slog his way towards the voice.

“That’s it, Greg. Come to me.”

He had no concept of time. Only the voice and the warmth enveloping him existed.

“Come for me, Gregory.”

Same voice, same words, different command. The liquid serpent in his spine had uncoiled without him realising and spread through his groin. At the command he became aware of it, became aware of the pheromones once again saturating the room, became aware of his cock being worked by his Omegas body.

“That’s it, Gregory. Ugh, yes, that’s it.”

The liquid heat was moving faster and he knew there wasn’t long left before he had to let it go.

“Kiss me, Master.” He gasped out, only vaguely aware how to shape the words.

Mycroft enveloped him in a kiss, and Greg felt himself lose control and fall back towards where he came from. The pleasure dancing through his body was an afterthought, his mind unable to process properly. Distantly he heard Mycroft telling him to rest; that he was there and would look after him; that Greg had been amazing; and that when he resurfaced from subspace, Mycroft would be there.

Greg smiled, and with his last thought took the liberty of snaking his arms around the Omega before his mind well and truly left him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter! 
> 
> I'll put the notes at the end this week, but hope you all enjoy. Some of you have had amazingly perceptive questions, which will mostly be answered in this last chapter. Some of them are deliberately left.. ambiguous.

When Greg awoke he was immediately aware that something was different. He lay there, nose buried in Mycroft’s hair, as he tried to figure what was going on.

Wait. Mycroft’s hair?

Only years of training to conceal his instinctive responses kept Greg from leaping out of bed, keeping his reaction instead to the slightest stiffening of his body. His brain happily supplied him with images: him under Mycroft, the toys they’d used, him taking Mycroft from behind with the Omega on all fours...

Omega. That was right. Mycroft was an Omega. His perfect Omega.

That was the difference, Greg realised. For the first time since he’d caught the whiff of pheromones on Thursday he was clear headed. Lifting his nose from Mycroft’s hair he took a deep breath. The room was completely devoid of pheromones. The Estrus cycle was over.

He let his head drop down on the pillow and tried to process everything.

He’d gone to dinner, as per every Thursday. Check.

Mycroft had cancelled. Check.

He’d come around to see what was wrong. Check

He’d come inside and they’d...Greg swallowed as his mind happily supplied information about a LOT of sex. Far too much sex, Greg realised, to have only been one night. He knew vaguely that Heat usually lasted for several days, but had no clue as to the amount of time he and Mycroft had spent together in chemical induced bliss.

His arms tightened around the sleeping Omega in his arms. Was that a bad thing that they’d slept together? His heart and body answered with a resounding NO.

His friend, his love, his Dom, his Omega.

Mycroft was perfect, everything Greg had ever hoped and wished for.

There was a slight stirring in his arms. Greg held still, pretending to be asleep in order to allow his friend to come awake and process things like he had. He regretted the fact that Mycroft was waking up so soon after he himself had, but there would be other times to enjoy the feeling of Mycroft wrapped in his arms.

The Dom stiffened as he returned to consciousness, brain obviously working things out much quicker than Greg had.

“Good morning.” Greg murmured contentedly as he gently nosed the back of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft yanked away rolling quickly out of bed and, coming to his feet next to a chair, pulled on a dressing gown with record speed. Greg felt his stomach drop at the horror that was extraordinarily clear on Mycroft’s face.

“My...” He started, not able to get far before his throat closed up as the Dom took two steps backwards. Away from _him_.

“My,” He tried again. “My, please say something.”

Mycroft’s right hand trembled, then clenched into a fist.

“My, please, you’re scaring me.” Greg knew he was begging, but every part of him was shuddering over the very clear rejection.

“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall. Towels should be inside.” The Omega turned and barrelled through a connecting door off to Greg’s left.

From the sound of a shower which instantly filled Greg’s hearing, it was an ensuite bathroom and Mycroft had either dived straight under the spray or turned it on to cover the sounds of him freaking out. Assuming Mycroft Holmes ever did something so pedestrian as ‘freak out’.

Greg swallowed, then swallowed again as he felt his soul collapse. He forced himself to lever out of the bed, pausing for longer than he should have on his knees as he tried to work out what had just happened. He stepped off the bed, taking the sheet with him, wrapping it around his waist as a sort of shield.

He didn’t know what it was for. His heart was already bleeding.

He gathered up his clothes from the floor. Carpet, he noted absently, a tan mottled with cream and gold that should have clashed horribly with the warm brown and gold walls, but somehow drew the colours together so the ornate wallpaper worked, fading from the eye in the presence of the more overpowering walls.

In however many days, he hadn’t noticed until now.

Refusing to look back and find out what colour the bed he’d just spent the best part of his life in was, he walked out of the room. End of the hall. The door opened easily, no jammed frames for Mycroft, and revealed a black and cream bathroom with a free standing footed bath, lion shaped taps, and ruby towels. He ignored the bath, his mind providing too many images of what could be done in there with the Omega he’d just watch run away from him, and stepped into the shower instead.

The water stung as it washed over his body making him aware of abrasions and other injuries he hadn’t previously noted. The shower had clear glass walls, looking strangely modern in its tiny corner of the otherwise traditional space, that allowed him full view of the enormous mirror over the hand basin. His back was covered with red lines. He recognised the majority of them as nail marks, though there were a couple that looked like they came from a crop of some sort. He didn’t remember those. He barely remembered the lines covering his buttocks from the riding crop, his brain providing a memory of bliss and ease as Mycroft took everything away and made him relax.

He swallowed hard and forcefully moved his eyes away. Unfortunately, this meant his gaze fell on his neck, which was covered in bruises. Quite clearly Mycroft had spent quite a long and desperate time there. A bite mark stood out on his bicep, he remembered getting that, but he didn’t remember the matching bite mark on his shoulder. Nor did he remember the love bites on his thighs, though they evoked the memory of a mind-blowing period in Mycroft’s mouth as the Omega worked him back to full hardness to take him again.

He moved his head under the spray and didn’t turn around to look at his front. Until he knew what was going to happen, the memories were too painful.

~*~

Greg walked down the passage in his stockinged feet, boots in one hand. He hadn’t been sure on whether Mycroft had a ‘no shoes in the house’ policy or not, so better safe than sorry. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to go back and wait for Mycroft in the bedroom, but the door he’d left open was now firmly shut so he was clearly not welcome back in there anyway. Instead he followed the red carpet runner down the stairs and back towards the front of the house he was at least vaguely familiar with.

The house looked very different without the pheromone induced haze. Clearly traditional architecture and deep dark tones were Mycroft’s preferred style. The thought made Greg’s heart twinge.

He placed his boots by the front door and drifted over to stand in the doorway of the room he’d been hustled into Thursday night. The light coming in the window was bathing the room in a gentle glow and providing a decent view of the sunset, considering the high buildings all around. He’d been here at least twenty four hours then.

He remembered the chair, still toppled over on its side, and even remembered that it was leather. Apparently it was chocolate brown leather same as the three seater settee with old fashioned brass press studs at the base and along the arms. There was a second chair he didn’t recall at all placed in line with the upturned one, and several antique tables decorated with decanters and books. More books lined the walls in heavy, old fashioned book cases, all of them leather bound, unlike Greg’s cheap paperbacks for his occasional free moments. The carpet was forest green and his eyes fell to the spot where he must have previously lain sprawled. The fireplace was cold, but not empty. Had there been a fire going when he had arrived? Greg couldn’t remember.

He slowly walked into the room and righted the chair, letting his fingers trail along the high winged back where Mycroft’s own fingers had clenched in an effort to resist Greg. He refused tears, though it took work. Sentimentality was going to get him nowhere, and there was nothing to say that once Mycroft got over the shock there would be any reason for them. They were after all, uniquely compatible. Neither would ever find anyone else ever who would fit them so well.

Greg moved back to the settee he’d perched on in what felt like another life and gingerly sat on the edge, feeling as if he were intruding on the space. There was still hope, it wasn’t all over. After all, if they’d bonded...

‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you?’ Sherlock was back in his head.

Greg was forced to accept the truth of the words and force tears back again. He didn’t know what a Bond felt like, no one did until they experienced it, but he knew instinctively that he and Mycroft hadn’t created one.

“Would you care for some tea?” Mycroft stood in the doorway, completely and impeccably dressed in another three piece suit.

“Ah, sure.” Greg stood with deliberate casualness.

“The kitchen is this way.”

Greg followed the retreating figure down past the staircase and a number of shut doors before Mycroft opened one and stepped through. The kitchen was a food lover’s dream, with a large stove and massive fridge. Greg felt his lips twist into a smile at the thought of what his Uncle and cousins, all of whom had gone into the culinary trade, would say of the room. The cooking gene had skipped his branch of the family, though he had been relentlessly drilled in the basics and knew enough to appreciate the space. Enough to know he could never have used half the available tools to even half their full potential.

Mycroft opened one of the cupboards and removed a floral tea set. Greg smothered a dark grin at the sight of the delicate smattering of pink roses over the tea pot and china cups and saucers. The silence as Mycroft boiled the water and seasoned the pot grew and grew, until he had to break it somehow.

“No servants then?” Mycroft turned partially to face him and raised an eyebrow. “Well, from what little I’ve heard your family seemed the type.”

The comment was acknowledged and left, letting the obvious lack of staff speak for itself, though Greg refused to believe Mycroft himself cleaned the stove. More likely he never used it and subsisted off take away and fancy dinners at the office.

The tea pot was placed on a silver tray with the cups, milk and sugar before Mycroft hesitated, clearly trying to decide where they would be going to drink the tea. Greg quickly plonked himself down at the kitchen table, refusing to be shuffled off to the ‘parlour’ like a stuffy formal guest rather than a friend. He just bet this place had a parlour. He also bet it wasn’t the sitting room he was in earlier. That seemed too... masculine and he imagined it may have once been a library or billiards room. From his limited understanding parlours tended to be much more delicate in decor.

Mycroft joined him at the table and awkwardly sat in the chair opposite Greg. The cups were arranged on the plate so when the tray was set down, they were automatically in front of the room’s occupants. Holmesian forethought, Greg thought with a sad internal smirk and shake of his head. Mycroft still didn’t say anything, apparently content to sit there in silence while the tea brewed in the pot. Greg was not so patient, and the tense and uncomfortable atmosphere was not how he was used to spending his time with Mycroft.

“You’re the only person I know who wears their suit jacket inside their own house.” Greg winced as he realised what he’d said, but, being a fairly typical mouth-before-brain comment he _would_ make, it seemed to soothe Mycroft slightly and the Omega let out a tight smile.

“I hate to prove you wrong Gregory,” Greg’s mind bombarded him with the more intimate ways his name had recently past Mycroft’s lips, “but I do believe that my brother occasionally does the same.”

Greg rolled his eyes, giving his throat time to unlock, having tightened with previously supplied thoughts. “Fine, you Holmeses are the only people I know who wear suit jackets inside your homes.”

Mycroft let out a strained laugh and poured the tea. His movements as he spooned sugar and added milk to their cups were obviously and painfully controlled. They sat there with their tea cooling in front of them, neither of them lifting the cups to take a drink. Greg knew he should be hungry, knew that he hadn’t eaten now for an extended period of time, but the thought of even the tea made him feel sick.

The silence continued.

“It’s Sunday.” Mycroft’s voice was clear and crisp.

“Oh.” Greg paused. That meant he hadn’t eaten in almost four whole days.

“Alphas’ and Omegas’ metabolisms slow during an Estrus cycle. The excess energy required for mating is provided, but all other bodily functions reduce, often leading to recollection issues. Despite this you’ll probably find yourself ravenous in an hour or so and will have lost some weight.” Mycroft sounded like he was reciting from a text book. He possibly was.

There didn’t seem to be anything to reply that Greg could force past his lips so the silence fell again. He picked up his tea cup, brought it to his lips, put it down without drinking, lifted it again, and then set it down and crossed his arms to stop fidgeting with it.

“So,” Greg kept his eyes on the tea pot, “you’re an Omega.”

“Yes.”

“Not an Alpha.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He took a breath. “Who else knows? About you’re being an Omega, I mean.”

Greg hoped the list would be small. The idea that other people knew and he hadn’t hurt.

“My parents, Mummy and Sherlock, of course, the family doctor, and my assistant.”

Each name felt like a shard of ice being forced into Greg’s heart, burning and freezing as it went.

“Right.”

The silence fell again. Mycroft changed the direction of the handle on his cup.

“What about you?”

“What?” Greg’s eyes shot up off the kettle at the sudden and unexpected sound of Mycroft’s voice.

Mycroft raised his eyes from their own resting spot beyond his tea cup to meet them. “Who knows you’re not a Dominant?”

Greg swallowed and broke the eye contact. Mycroft’s gaze wasn’t accusing, but it might as well have been. He hadn’t told him either and so had no right to be upset himself.

“No one.” He admitted. “You’re the first person to ever find out.”

Mycroft nodded in Greg’s peripheral vision.

“How did you manage it?” Greg asked. “I mean, for me it was easy. Everyone assumed that because I was an Alpha I was a Dom.”

Mycroft leant back in his chair and his gaze wondered off over the wall. “You know of course that even though it’s not possible to tell gender or dynamic until puberty, there is always some indication in children’s personalities of their sexuality, especially if they’re likely to fall very high or very low on the dominance scale.”

Greg nodded, though his practical experience with children was limited to his own memories.

“It was clear through my childhood I was going to be a Dominant, everything about the way I acted apparently made this fact very obvious to the world.”

That Greg could easily imagine. As dominant as Mycroft was as an adult, there must have been a bleed through into his childhood well beyond that normal for most people.

“Then when Sherlock was born it was deemed settled. I was over protective, I was possessive, I was everything a Dominant Alpha elder brother was expected to be. Then I turned eleven and it was revealed I was an Omega, not an Alpha as expected. It was... a shock.”

The measured tone of voice suggested that Mycroft was under exaggerating the situation. Greg could only imagine how Mycroft had felt having developed his self-image his whole childhood and then having it torn down around him. At least when Greg received his revelation it was more a gradual acceptance than a bolt outright characterisation.

Of course, unlike Greg, who had only to deal with himself, Mycroft would have had his family to handle. Greg knew nothing of the extended Holmes family beyond the occasional mention of Mummy, but he doubted their reactions had been easy to deal with. Omegas were treasured as second sons, but not overly appreciated as heirs.

Mycroft’s hands moved to loosely link on the edge of the table. They were steady and calm. “It was decided that everyone had been incorrect, that I obviously just had a very forthright child’s personality and that that would suitably adjust when I hit adolescence. It didn’t, and it was understood by the time I was fifteen that it wasn’t going to.”

The hands unlinked and the fingers crossed back the other way.

“It hadn’t been announced that I was an Omega due to the confusion, so it was decided that it wouldn’t be. I was an Omega and I was a Dominant. I couldn’t be both. Only one would fulfil my role in the family and allow me fulfil our hereditary governmental duties to the Crown .”

Greg nodded. “So you stayed an Alpha, as society already assumed you were.”

There was a subtle agreement from Mycroft. “I’m sure you can imagine... the problems that would have arisen should I have been revealed as an Omega.”

Greg nodded again. As an Omega there would have been no way Mycroft could have gone into government. Even if all the prejudices hadn’t worked against him, even if he had been accepted as equal by his peers on the national and international political stages, he would have been too vulnerable. If the political world knew Mycroft was an Omega the almost 100% Alpha profession would have tried to use him. Every time he went into Heat, he would have been in danger as every politician who wanted something, and even those who didn’t, attempted to manoeuvre into his bed to mate him, to Bond him and to take his power base as their own. Foreign nations would have sent people, not to kill him, but to kidnap him, to try and force a Bond that would allow them access to his knowledge and power. Every move he made, every person he spoke to, would have been suspect and no one could have been trusted. Even politicians and bureaucrats required allies to get things done, and Mycroft would have been able to trust none of them.

“You could have not taken up the post.” Greg felt the need to say it, because he had a sinking feeling he knew that Mycroft’s previous statement was more than a casual comment on his past, but was instead the final conclusion of a discussion they hadn’t yet had, and he had to argue with it somehow.

“There was no one else. Sherlock was nine by the time my dynamic was known for sure and already showing clear signs of being an Omega Submissive, not an Alpha, though he did fight it.”

As a Dom, Mycroft could never have lived with the Alpha Dominant he would have been required to Mate with to pass the family position to his Bound and Bonded mate. With Mycroft alive, even if Sherlock _had_ managed a relationship the position could never have passed to his partner either.

Mycroft’s hand moved to put another spoonful of sugar in his untouched tea.

Greg felt a lump in his throat. He pushed it away and looked up, forcing a cheery look which only slightly died at the serious and reserved visage which greeted him.

“You know I always did blame you for Sherlock’s less than submissive behaviour. I thought it was just reaction to having a dominant elder brother, you know, pushing back.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Partially. It’s also that,” there was a pause as Mycroft searched for the right words.

“He wanted to be a Dom, didn’t he?” Greg had long suspected this.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s more than the fact he felt it would give him more options in life. He...he admired me. He wanted to be like me. To him my sexuality is amazing, because it’s unique. It’s not normal, not _boring_.” Mycroft’s face softened, as it always did when he spoke about his younger brother without said brother present. “He hates me for being what he wanted to be, because he can’t be it. To him this is freedom, the ability to do as I like and choose rather than fold to biology that wants to force a certain role. He sees independence.”

Mycroft didn’t sound very free.

“He seems happy with John, though?” Greg offered.

Mycroft turned his face back to meet Greg’s gaze.

“Doctor Watson has been a godsend. Sherlock refused to have any relationships previously, too afraid that his Dom would force him to give up his interests and conform to societal expectations. He may claim not hide his sexuality, but he does employ a very large and thick smoke screen to keep people from realising on the off chance someone became too close and used their relationship to stop him from doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.” Mycroft let a tight forced smile dance across his lips. “John will never do that and he is more than dominant enough to comfortably handle Sherlock’s masks and reach the Submissive inside.”

Greg felt his own affectionate grin stretching his lips, but it faltered slightly on his face.

“John wants to have kids.” He blurted out and flushed immediately. That was told to him in confidence, drunken confidence or not.

Mycroft merely nodded. “I know.”

Greg waited to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. “Sherlock doesn’t.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Is that your opinion, is it?”

Greg raised his own eyebrow, refusing to not back down from the challenge. Submissive _and_ Alpha. “It’s Sherlock. Half the time he forgets John at a crime scene, let alone a baby. There is no way he’ll stop work long enough to give birth, forget caring for the child afterwards. He’s just...” Greg struggled to find the words, “not parental!”

Mycroft looked away, gaze fastening again on the wall. “It may surprise you to know, Gregory, that at the very time you were having a drunken heart to heart with John, - yes, I do know all about that - Sherlock was sitting where you are now close to tears because he was scared he’d permanently destroyed his fertility with the less than regular chemicals he’d been taking to suppress his cycle, and would consequently never be able to have a child.”

Startled Greg leant back in his chair, feeling the soft thud as his back hit the firm surface in the sharp stings on his back. “Really?” He knew his voice was disbelieving, but, really? Sherlock? Upset? About kids?

Mycroft kept his gaze on the wall. “Coming out of Heat bonded to John was the best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. Coming out of it without a child, depressed him beyond anything I’ve ever seen in him before, though he hid it well. If not for the Bond, he would almost certainly have sunk back into drugs.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off to a murmur. “He always did prefer interacting with children to adults. Said they hadn’t been conditioned to be stupid yet.”

“Does John know that? Because the Alpha I talked to was sure Sherlock didn’t want a child, and it was tearing him apart.”

Mycroft sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “I try to stay out of their private life as much as possible unless Sherlock needs me. They are happy in all other respects, and with luck the matter will resolve itself soon. They’re Bonded, Sherlock is bound to go back into Estrus before much longer, and hopefully this time there will be a child.”

Greg nodded. He felt slightly like one of those bobbing dogs people kept in their cars with all the nodding he’d been doing, but the conversation was so stilted that it was hard to reply with more than an acknowledgement.

He stopped and fiddled with the tea cup instead.

The silence stretched thin again until the sounds made by his tea cup in its saucer were deafening.

“So, what about us then?” Greg heard himself ask. He mentally kicked himself as he did not, under any circumstances, want the answer to that. He knew the answer; Mycroft had made it clear.

Mycroft sighed. “There is no us, Gregory.”

Greg’s heart was stuck in his throat. It was the only possible reason it was so hard to breathe, why he couldn’t talk.

Mycroft’s voice was gentle and very tight as he kept going. “We didn’t Bond, surely you’re aware of that.”

“Yes.” Greg rasped, though the sentence was like a knife to the gut. He’d known, of course, he’d thought about it already, but he’d hoped, how he’d hoped.

“Then that’s that.”

“Right.”

He would not beg. He absolutely would not fall to his knees on the floor and beg Mycroft to reconsider. He was an Alpha, he had his pride, and if that’s the only thing he had to keep him going he would use it.

“Nothing will change.”

There was the sound of a vow in Mycroft’s voice. Friends, Mycroft still wanted to be friends. That was good. It was something at least.

“Friends then.” Greg kept his voice detached. He would not let Mycroft know that he was tearing Greg apart, sentence by sentence, word by word.

“Of course. This was merely an unfortunate and costly error on my behalf. I do apologise.”

The idea of it being a mistake, the idea that something that to Greg was so perfect, was being _apologised_ for was heart wrenching and Greg gripped the tea cup to prevent himself curling up in a ball.

“Why’d you wait so long to cancel?” Greg had to know.

Mycroft must have known Greg would come round to check on him, must have known. It had been a plea then, a hope that Greg would, and Greg needed to hear him say it; needed Mycroft to say he had cancelled late because he had wanted Greg.

“My doctor and I were trialling a new experimental suppressant; I react to the conventional ones, and this one is less potent with more manageable side effects. I had been warned that I might experience a pseudo cycle for a few hours because of the lower dosage. By the time I realised it wasn’t going to stop, and that it was an actual Estrus cycle...well, I don’t need to tell you.”

Greg let his chin drop despondently. Not him then. Not a silent plea for attention, a hidden declaration of feelings, just science, timing and bad luck.

Mycroft stood and took his tea cup to the sink where he poured the undrunk liquid down the sink, a clear indication that the conversation was over.

Friends, Greg repeated the word numbly. He could do friends. He _would_ do friends even if it killed him if it was the only piece of Mycroft he could have.

He slowly stood as well, placing his cup back on the tray for Mycroft to deal with later. His feet felt heavy as he moved back along the corridor to the door to pull on his boots.

Friends.

Mycroft paused several feet away from him, waiting for Greg to finish. Greg pulled on the last boot, and put his hand on the handle. The door opened easily. How sad, Greg thought, that it had taken so much effort to get in, and yet so little to leave.

He paused with his foot on the step, remaining in the doorway, and twisted to face Mycroft who had moved to hold the open door.

“So, Thursday then?” He had to ask, had to have the reassurance.

Mycroft nodded. “Thursday.”

The door shut gently behind him and Greg walked off down the street, refusing to let himself run. Refusing to let himself acknowledge the space between them, the pause before Mycroft had agreed to see him Thursday.

The fact that Mycroft hadn’t commented at all on the awful pattern of his socks.

A dry sob escaped his throat and he forced it back. Not yet. Not until he got home. Then he’d throw himself on the bed and cry and yell and wail at the world over his broken heart and crushed hopes.

Then on Monday, he’d get up and go to work and do his overtime, and again on Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday if required.

There was no reason not to.

Friends.

He could do friends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> The muse made me do it! I promise, the original idea ended all nice and fluffy... but then.... 
> 
> There is a sequel, already written and being Betaed as we speak. I'm aiming for multiple chapters an upload because it's long. As in over 200,000k words long. For those who don't like a long, slow build I would however recommend you stop here, because otherwise the next part will frustrate the hell out of you. I'll give more details next week, when I start uploading. 
> 
> Until then!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are love. Please feel free to critique and review. Flames will be ignored, but constructive criticism and suggestions on where to improve will be very much appreciated.


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